


The Most Wicked Game

by ShyThrush



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Actually more like downright creepy, Caves, Claustrophobia, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt/Comfort, I may have to update the archive warnings on this one, Jaskier goes through some serious self hatred here, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Major Character Injury, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Sadistic Lords, They need to talk about it, Trials, asshole original characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:20:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 112,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27494125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShyThrush/pseuds/ShyThrush
Summary: Jaskier is tired. All he wants is one night, one night with a warm bed and a bright fire and maybe some decent food. But his exhaustion also governs his tongue, makes him say cruel things without even thinking. Now, burning with guilt about a misstep, he unintentionally leads Geralt into a sadistic trial, one from which there may be no escape, and which puts both their lives on the line.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 123
Kudos: 217





	1. Off The Wayward Path

**Author's Note:**

> So...this was supposed to be a one-shot. Clearly, that ship sailed, wrecked, and sunk to the bottom of the ocean. However, I'm excited to introduce you to my next big multi-chapter work! The rating for this may change over time, because my villain is a REAL creep and I'm concerned about his intentions. That being said, pay attention to the warnings, I'll include them in the individual chapters as well if you want to avoid any unpleasantness.
> 
> For this whole story, let it be known there's a good deal of miscommunication and also a lot of self-hatred on the part of both our boys. Jaskier is new to all this and keeps on messing up and Geralt can't understand why he has all these *feelings* so anyways there's that. In this chapter, there's also some non-consensual and decently creepy touching, but nothing explicit.

The morning was crisp, like biting into a fresh green apple and feeling the juice run down your chin. Jaskier could almost taste the delectable sweetness as he meandered along, strumming the occasional chord, happily watching Roach’s tail swish back and forth in front of him. She was having a considerably worse time of it, he thought. The flies were always abominable in fall. But, for Jaskier, it was perfect weather for composing. Nothing gave way to poetry like the crackle of leaves beneath one’s feet, the sweet scent of changing seasons on the air. He was looking forwards to finding a village where they could stop, perhaps by some fall fruits. It had been ages since Jaskier had sunk his teeth into a warm piece of pumpkin roasted over an open fire, or licked the sweetness of a fall apple from his chin. And while Geralt would surely deny it until his dying day, Jaskier knew he would also relish the opportunity to relax and enjoy the comforts of a village for a few nights. Jaskier had once interrogated Geralt about what his favourite season was, for research on a song. After much gnashing of teeth and general emotional illiteracy, Geralt had settled on fall. He liked the smell, he said. And it was easier to hunt while the leaves were falling, but before it was too cold. Jaskier had rolled his eyes at that last bit. Leave it to Geralt to determine his favourite season based on the practicalities it presented in his profession. The man was incurable. It made Jaskier smile fondly. Much had changed since those early days, but Geralt’s constant need for the most practical and logical solution was not one of them.

“Are we giving up our quest to find a town and camping here tonight? Or should we keep going?” Jaskier knew what he would have liked, but Geralt had the horse. And all their coin. He knew the Witcher would not make a decision without consulting him first.

Roach wandered on for a few paces before she stopped and Geralt twisted in the saddle, placing a hand on his mare’s rump.

“I can smell the desire to spend a night in an inn on you as clearly as I can smell that you haven’t washed in at least a week and a half. We’re going on.”

Jaskier shot Geralt an offended look that was mostly an act. They both reeked, he knew. Several weeks of hunting in the high mountains was not conducive to taking long baths. Most of the sources of water in those parts had been ice barely a day before they were tumbling past Geralt’s usual camping spots. Jaskier was surprised all his fingers and toes had survived the ordeal.

“I’m not the only one in need of a bath,” he shot back, “I haven’t been spending my days swimming in werewolf guts.”

“Professional hazard. Come, we need to keep moving if we want a warm place to stay tonight.”

“Before we go on, perhaps you should wipe the blood off your forehead?”

Geralt had suffered a concussive blow while hunting a werewolf in the mountains. While it was nearly healed, the carefully placed sutures Jaskier had made were still leaking blood occasionally, and they made the Witcher look a fright. It was a small cut, but Jaskier had learned a long time ago that head wounds often refused to stop bleeding, even long after the other effects of the concussion were long gone. Villages in these parts were suspicious of strangers, and the bard did not like their chances of getting a room if they entered the town looking like a pair of vagabonds who had come straight from the rough end of a bar fight. Although, for his part, Jaskier thought he looked fine. If one could look past the malleably greasy hair, that was. He felt unclean, and a surreptitious shiver worked its way down his spine. 

With an irritated huff that the bard had learned was mostly for show and bore little sway over how Geralt was actually feeling, the Witcher reached up a gloved hand and swiped away the errant strands of blood. 

“Much better,” Jaskier nodded in approval, “We’ve enough difficulty finding a room at local inns without looking like a couple of ruffians, no? What with your monstrous reputation and recognizable face.”

The moment he said it, he wanted to take his words back. His heart dropped like a heavy weight and bottomed out somewhere in his gut as he waited for the Witcher’s reaction. In an instant, a beautiful fall day turned sour; the crisp green apple went mushy and rotten at the core. Jaskier swallowed back his own pounding heart. Though Geralt showed no outward reaction, the bard immediately noticed the way his face closed off a bit, the way his hands tightened around Roach’s reins in the slightest, the leather of his gloves creaking a bit. He jogged to catch up, lute bouncing on his back and clanging discordantly into the open air.

“You know I didn’t mean it like that, Geralt. I’m sorry.”

“Hmm.”

Jaskier supposed he had better shut his mouth before he said something else idiotic. Clearly, Geralt was finished talking for the day. Trying not to kick himself for making such a grievous misstep, he fell back into place alongside Roach’s swishing tail, trying to focus on the crunching sound his feet made in the gravel and the soft rustling of the wind shaking the leaves down to earth. It would do him little good to commiserate on his idiocy now, when it was already done.

They rode on like this for some time, until Jaskier had worked himself up into such a state about what he had said that, to his eternal shame, he could feel tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. He could almost hear his father, admonishing him, breath heavy with drink creeping down his spine. The way he had used to say that there was no use having a son, if that son acted more like a woman than his daughters did, with his sensitivity and his proclivity to speak without thinking. The way he had burned that shame so deep into the bard’s mind that it followed him even now, hundreds of miles from Lettenhove. He sniffed, not wanting Geralt to catch on. Surely, the Witcher would have even less patience for his emotional storms than his father had. Geralt had the emotional range of a turnip. Jaskier would be lucky if he didn’t simply put his heels to Roach and gallop away, leaving the bard in the dust.

When Roach lurched to a halt in front of him, Jaskier swallowed, preparing himself. He knew how this would go. It had happened before. Images of his father breaking his things, smashing them against the flagstones of the courtyard, flashed before his mind. And Geralt’s dubious friendship was more precious to him than any object ever could be.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, as the Witcher took a breath, about to speak, “You should continue on. I’ll find somewhere else to stay.”

The silver head whipped around sharply then, and when Jaskier dared to look up he saw dark eyebrows drawn together in confusion. Geralt’s jaw was tense as well, but not in the way that the bard associated with rage. It was a softer sort of tension, and his teeth worked like he was trying very hard to understand something. 

“What are you talking about?”

Jaskier had put up his hood in a last ditch attempt to hide his agony from Geralt. After all, he was not the one who should be feeling such acute pain after basically insinuating his very best friend was a monster, not fit to stay in a human establishment. Geralt reached over now, though, and ripped it back. His eyebrows only drew further together when he appraised the dampness on Jaskier’s cheeks.

“Jaskier.” The tone was soft, admonishing, encouraging. All at once. The bard hadn’t even realized Geralt had the ability to embody such traits. Though he supposed he had been too quick to judge; they had only known each other a few months.

He sniffed and looked up.

“I should find somewhere else to stay. I can’t even keep my own tongue and prejudiced mind from causing you pain, I don’t know how I’m supposed to help improve your reputation. Which is the only reason you’re letting me follow you around, clearly. I can’t imagine why else I would still be here.”

Geralt frowned even more deeply, if that was possible. His canines worried at his lower lip, a habit that Jaskier had quickly noted and would have found unbearably attractive if he hadn’t been so abjectly miserable. He shivered as the Witcher considered his words, watching as the man’s face became more and more perplexed the longer he mulled it over. After nearly ten minutes of silence, during which Jaskier flip-flopped between simply turning tail and leaving, to outrightly asking why Geralt insisted on torturing him so, the Witcher took a breath in.

“Come.”

He held out one of his hands, the leather of his pauldrons creaking at the unfamiliar movement. Clearly, he didn’t often offer people help onto Roach’s back. Though Jaskier could have guessed that, from his near volcanic reactions to the bard trying to pet her or give her treats in the past.

“W-what?”

“Sit behind me. Clearly you’re exhausted. I can’t have you collapsing in the middle of the road. You need food, and a warm bed.”

“Oh.”

Jaskier swallowed dryly as he was swung up onto Roach’s back without so much as a grunt of effort from Geralt. Perhaps the Witcher was simply taking care of his obvious bodily needs. Perhaps he was just trying to get to town so he no longer had to deal with a sniffling, useless bard as well as his own aches and pains while still on the road. A small part of him hoped that it was something more, that maybe there was a chance Geralt thought of him as more than just someone who refused to stop following him around. The bard doubted it, though. Especially after his most recent performance. Witchers had famously low tolerance for time-wasting displays of emotion. Jaskier doubted that Geralt was impressed with his own airing of his traumas.

Still, when he was seated on Roach, awkwardly perched halfway on the lip of the saddle but also leaning onto the hot, sweaty expanse of the mare’s back, swaying and trying to find his balance, Geralt did something very unexpected. Reaching back and grabbing the bard’s arms, he hauled him none-too-gently forwards, wrapping Jaskier’s arms around his torso. The bard nearly stopped breathing, and Geralt grunted at him in a way that almost sounded amused. 

“The last thing you need right now is to take a fall into the ditch.”

“Oh. Yes. I suppose you’re right.”

Timidly, Jaskier adjusted his grip, trying to ignore how easy it was to feel Geralt’s lungs expanding and contracting under his arms, the way he could feel the muscles in his shoulders shifting as he guided Roach. Even his heart, far too slow and very strong, beat through the bard’s body, reverberating as though Jaskier were nothing more than the tight skin stretched taut over a drum, meant only to vibrate at its call. He took a shaky breath, tried to focus on the trees sliding by. His own breaths were still shaky, the way they always got after he cried. They mirrored the whispering of the trembling aspen leaves high overhead, which shivered as the day melted into pale pink evening, and then, finally, darkness. 

\----

Jaskier was jolted awake very suddenly, and the first thing he noticed was the smell. An unfamiliar musk, definitely not the scent of his own bedroll. Something he had once commented on, he thought. Along with some undertones of onion. There was also a tingling sort of itch in his cheek, and when he raised his head, he felt the skin disengage from a ridge, like the stitches in a jacket. Then, he put two and two together, and jerked upright with a gasp, mortified. Something deep within him felt shaken and fragile, the way it always did after he experienced some sort of mental anguish. It was not a pleasant feeling.

“Ah! Gods, Geralt, what the fuck…”

He trailed off nervously, now that he could see why he had woken in the first place.

“Geralt…what’s happening? Why are there soldiers?”

“I don’t know.”

“Are we in danger?” Jaskier’s heart sank at the thought; it had, after all, been his idea to stop in a town in the first place.

“I don’t know. Stay quiet. Don’t say anything idiotic. In fact, it might be better if you just keep your mouth shut altogether, yes?”

Jaskier bit his lip, the normal snarky reply that would have jumped off his tongue still buried deep under his residual misery. Now that he was less groggy, the earlier events of the evening were coming back to him. He felt his face colour, flushed with anger and humiliation. Geralt was right. The moment he opened his mouth, he couldn’t be trusted to keep his idiotic comments at bay.

It was still dark, but the approaching soldiers were easily identifiable by their torches, row upon row of them, and the beat of their synchronized feet. In the distance, beyond them, Jaskier could make out a large settlement, big enough to have walls and a stone gate. He was surprised, having not expected to encounter such a large city so far out of the way. If he had known, he would never have suggested they stop.

Geralt had reined in Roach, and waited with visible impatience as they soldiers halted in front of them, turning about and saluting their commander in a display of completely unnecessary pageantry. The commanding officer, who headed the column, was an enormous man, wearing armour that appeared to have been specially made to accommodate his girth. A large handlebar moustache protruded from his face, and in the backlight of the torches, it gave his head the appearance of having wings. The thought cheered Jaskier a little, considering the circumstances, and he nearly shared it with Geralt before thinking better of it. 

The commander stepped forward, and gave a pompous, overstated cough before launching into what was very obviously a meticulously prepared speech. 

“Witcher of Rivia! And…companion. Greetings, and welcome to Errowhal! We’ve been expecting your arrival for some time now. Please, if you’d follow myself and my humble escort, we can take you forthwith to our lord, who will give you further instructions.”

Jaskier peered around to get a better look at Geralt’s face, which was wrinkled with as much confusion as he assumed his own was. The commander’s nasally voice still echoed in his ears, far higher than most of the men he was accustomed to encountering, who often deepened their voices more than was strictly necessary. Particularly in Geralt’s presence.

“You…don’t know these people, by any chance?”

“No.”

“Ah. Good. Any idea why they’re expecting us here?”

Geralt shrugged, and turned back to the pompous commander, raising his voice from the growl he had been using to communicate with the bard.

“Should I have been expecting such a prodigious welcoming committee?”

“Ah,” the commander took a step forward, and rested a gloved hand on Geralt’s knee, looking up at him with small, piggy eyes of a watery blue, “I suppose not. Because, while we know much of you, Witcher, you’ve probably not yet heard of us. Fear not. All will be revealed, in good time.”

“I’d rather it was revealed now.”

Jaskier immediately recognized the dangerous quiver that was entering Geralt’s voice, and he wasn’t at all surprised. He did not take well to being touched, and the commander’s hand was still fixed firmly on his leg. There was an awkward silence, during which Jaskier heard the tinkling and clanging of the armoured column before them, soldiers shifting minutely from one foot to the other. He thought he could hear the crackling of the torches as well, if he listened carefully enough. It was enough to make any man unsettled, not to mention that the bard was already feeling not his best, as well as extremely guilty for inadvertently putting Geralt in such a strange predicament. 

Suddenly, a great, booming laugh shattered the uncomfortable silence. The commander threw back his head, barring unnaturally large teeth, previously hidden by his moustache. Jaskier cringed a bit at the sound, and felt Geralt flinch away from the noise as well.

“Well, my dear Witcher, we’ve heard nothing if not that you’re clear in your demands. And you certainly don’t fall short on any account,” here the man’s eyes roved up and down Geralt’s body in a manner that made Jaskier supremely uncomfortable, “so we shouldn’t have expected you to ask for anything less! Our lord, the most honourable and venerable Lord Corvin, has long awaited a Witcher brave enough to help with a…local pest problem in the catacombs under Errowhal. As such, he keeps close tabs on the Witchers roving the Continent, hoping one will pass through. We’ve been hearing rumours you were in the area for several weeks, White Wolf. It was only a matter of time until you were destined to pass by.”

Geralt shuddered minutely at the use of the word “destined”, and Jaskier wondered why. Then, he appeared to compose himself, straightening in the saddle and urging Roach forward, successfully dislodging the commander’s hand from his knee as well as the first few rows of men from their assigned locations in one fell swoop. Leaving the soldiers scrambling to catch up, he rode forwards, through the gates and into the empty city streets, where only then he allowed the escort to take the lead. 

“Geralt,” Jaskier whispered, “I’m sorry. I…I didn’t know this would happen. And I don’t like the look of it.”

“Neither do I. But you couldn’t have known. Unless you’re part of some plot to betray me to Nilfgaard or suchlike, which I don’t believe you are.”

The words stung until Jaskier noticed what appeared to be the faintest flicker of a smile on Geralt’s face. A little burst of relief swept over him. Perhaps the Witcher was not as angry with him as he had previously assumed. The thought was nearly too good to be true. He had not read Geralt as being the forgiving type.

“You know I’m sorry, right? For what I said earlier. I spoke without thinking. I don’t see you in that way, not at all. Less so, in fact, with each and every day.”

Geralt nodded minutely.

“I would have left you in the dust in Posada if you did.”

“Ah.”

Though Jaskier still felt shaken by the stirred up memories of his father, there was cool relief seeping through him now as well. It was a difficult combination to deal with, particularly as a different type of cold seeped into his veins, taking the form of fear. Geralt was not angry with him. But these men were strange, and the further they rode into the city, the more ill at ease Jaskier felt. There was something evil at work here, and it turned his veins to ice.

The first oddity here was that there were no pyres dedicated to the Eternal Fire. They were almost always present in cities these days, particularly since Nilfgaard had begun its conquests. But there were none here, no telltale columns of smoke or flickering light to brighten up the deepness of the night. In fact, there was no light at all. No windows were glowing warmly, and there were no street lamps casting their pools of gentle luminescence into the cobbled roads. Except for the marching feet of the escort, there was no noise either, no signs of life. Not even a horse tethered outside a home or a stray cat scurrying along a gutter. Nothing but empty, darkened windows staring out at them like vacant, foreboding eyes, warning them to turn back. The houses were ramshackle, and everything had an air of being broken down, but recently tidied, as though the whole city had been preparing for this night. It set Jaskier’s teeth on edge, and from the tension he felt in Geralt’s shoulders and the slight uptick in his heart rate, the Witcher was feeling similarly unsettled. Roach’s hooves clopped hollowly against the stones, a stark contrast to the pounding feet of the soldiers. Jaskier wrapped his arms a bit more tightly around Geralt’s waist, hoping the Witcher wouldn’t mind. He didn’t pull away, which was sign enough.

Finally, after nearly twenty minutes of winding their way through vast, empty streets, the enormous commander lifted his fist, calling for a halt. As one, the soldiers stopped their march, and completed the same odd saluting ritual that Jaskier and Geralt had witnessed on the road. Then they parted, like long grass in a farmer’s field, creating a pathway from Roach to the commander, who still stood at the head of the column.

“Please, Sir Witcher. Dismount and follow me. Your companion may accompany you, if he wishes.”

Geralt turned to Jaskier and gave him a sharp nod, signalling that he could come, if he was amenable to it. The bard eagerly nodded in return, not at all enthusiastic about the idea of waiting out here in the eerily empty streets, surrounded by what had to be at least a hundred armed men. They swung down together, Geralt adjusted his swords surreptitiously as they approached the commander. Now that they were on the ground, Jaskier realized how short the man was, barely up to his shoulder. It made him feel a bit less intimidated.

“Your weapons, if you please.” A flabby hand extended, and Jaskier shuddered at the long emphasis of the ’s’ sound in the word please. It sounded like the way a snake would speak, if it had suddenly become human.

A flash of darkness passed over Geralt’s face at his words.

“You said you had a contract for me. How do you expect me to complete it without any weapons?”

“They will be returned to you at the appropriate time. No one is allowed to carry weapons before his lordship.”

Geralt gave a pointed look at the sword and dagger strapped to the commander’s waist, nearly hidden by a roll of fat that was beginning to seep out from underneath his chest plate. The commander ignored him, keeping his hand extended. Jaskier noticed, to his revulsion, that there was sweat dripping off it. 

Grunting, Geralt unfastened his sword harness, swinging it over his shoulder and placing it with more force than was strictly necessary in the outstretched hand. He followed with several daggers from the sheath on his leg, as well as a hunting knife he kept fastened to the inside of his arm while they were travelling. It was with a good amount of relief that Jaskier noticed he did not surrender the dagger that the bard knew was hidden in his boot, nor was he asked about it. Though, considering the sheer amount of weapons already dispensed into the commander’s care, Jaskier wasn’t particularly surprised they didn’t suspect the Witcher of having any more. He was surprised, though, when the commander turned and held out his hand to him, next.

“I’m a bard. What makes you suspect I’m carrying any sort of weapon?”

“Your choice of travelling companion.” There was a measure of distaste in the nasal voice that didn’t match his earlier jovial disposition. Shuddering, Jaskier quickly handed over the small, delicately designed dagger her carried at his side, hidden inside the waistline of his pants. A gift from his sister. The weapon with which his father had encouraged him to take his own life. He carried it with him as a reminder that he had not. 

Geralt shot him a surprised look as the commander tossed the ornate dagger up into a barrel along with the Witcher’s swords with an air of supreme satisfaction. Jaskier shrugged.

“I’m not completely thoughtless.” There was very little humour in the sentiment. He was still pained about the earlier incident.

“Hmm.”

Having falsely satisfied himself that there were no more weapons left on either the Witcher or the bard, the commander beckoned for them to follow him through a small, dingy-looking side door. Anxiously, Jaskier stuck close to Geralt’s back as they passed through, feeling as though there were a million eyes watching him from every nook and cranny. The hall that they had entered into appeared to be at least partially naturally formed. The result was an odd combination of clay and rock walls, fortified in places with bricks and stones, and sometimes old beams. The whole place was very damp and cold, and Jaskier could feel the moisture sticking to his skin and throat. He took a moment to lament the damage it would surely cause his vocal cords.

The journey through the tunnel-hall was long and cold, and for a while Jaskier could focus on nothing but the squelching of his boots as they sunk again and again into the strange, sludge-like muck that seemed to cover the ground. He wanted to ask what kind of grand lord lived in such a dreary place, but he dared not. There was enough of a sense of imminent doom about this whole venture already. And Geralt had asked him to stay quiet. After all, his mouth did nothing but get them in trouble, it seemed.

They did not stop until the tunnel suddenly widened out, giving way to a strange great hall, partially naturally formed, with great stalagmites and stalactites glittering in the light of sparsely placed torches. Jaskier gaped, and nearly smacked into Geralt’s back.

“Stay behind me,” the Witcher hissed to him under his breath, “This place reeks of fear.”

Geralt was not usually so open about his intuitions, at least not in the bard’s limited experience. He gulped, and stood at Geralt’s shoulder, rather missing the comforting view of his swords. A chill breeze shuddered around them, and the commander disappeared, his boots echoing through the enormous chamber. It appeared to have no end, Jaskier thought. It just melted off into the darkness. The thought made him feel extremely vulnerable. He was always calmed by having a wall to put his back to. 

There was no telling how long they waited like that. Somehow, time, like the walls of the cavern, seemed to simply melt away. Jaskier began to shift anxiously from one foot to the other. His normal nervous chatter was gone; it seemed almost unholy to speak in such a huge, echoing space. He felt as though something might be eavesdropping. 

Geralt stayed perfectly still in front of him, but the bard could tell he was not idle. Every muscle in his body thrummed with so much pent-up energy that Jaskier could almost feel it leaking out into his own stance. Geralt was always tense, but now he was practically vibrating with the urge to leap, to attack something. Only, there was nothing to attack. The only sound other than their own breathing was the distant dripping of stalactites onto their stalagmite siblings, a continuous, maddening noise that was incessant in the dark.

At first, the footsteps sounded so similar to this dripping that Jaskier was unable to distinguish one from the other. However, he saw Geralt get even more impossible tense, and he pricked up his ears. Sure enough, there was a certain ringing quality to the echoes of what must have been boots on the uneven, damp floor that separated it from the dripping. Jaskier swallowed nervously. His heart was thumping so hard in his chest he thought it would surely beat against his ribs until they broke. There was a sudden warmth encircling his leg and for a moment the bard thought he had pissed himself until he looked down and saw, to his shock, that Geralt’s hand was wrapped around his thigh.

“Stay behind me. Don’t speak.”

Jaskier nodded silently, not trusting that anything more than a frightened whimper would escape his mouth if he opened it. He had never felt so wrong about a situation, or so put off by a location. There was something very strange happening here, and he felt so completely out of his depth. As though he had been drawn into a plot far beyond his ability to comprehend or defend himself from. He wondered how often Geralt felt this way, and how often he hid those fears from those around him, including Jaskier himself. 

The footsteps approached them for what seemed to be a neverendingly long time. As they got closer, Jaskier could hear now that there were two sets, one that sounded heavy and that he deduced to be the returning commander, and the other set which was light and feathery, barely there, a brush against the muddy stones. Geralt must have heard it too. His face was creased into a frown of confusion. 

Whatever suspicions the two of them might have harboured as to who this strange person was, the kept them to themselves until there could be no more doubt. As the commander lumbered forwards out of the blackness, he was followed by an impossibly tall, lithe figure. 

“Aen Seidhe…” Jaskier breathed, but he seemed to have spoken too soon. For though the figure that emerged from the darkness, walking delicately and gracefully in a way only a nonhuman could appeared to be an elf, when his ears came into the light it became clear he was not. Jaskier sucked in a breath of surprise.

“Geralt…”

“Glamour. Probably keeps the locals from killing him. Though his heritage explains the lack of temples to the Eternal Fire here.”

The two figures moved closer to them, and with a gruesome smile, the commander stepped aside. Jaskier could see now that his teeth were rotten and blackening, and some had already fallen out. In the darkness, it had not been evident. But now that he was lit by the guttering flames, the bard was beginning to wonder if everything in this place was slowly rotting away, crumbling from the inside out. The husks of the houses and cavern in which they were currently standing only helped his theory, and he shuddered at the thought.

“At last, the White Wolf of Rivia. I have waited a long time to make your acquaintance.”

“Longer than you would have your subjects guess, it seems.”

A hissing breathe escaped the dark figure, who was still mostly cloaked in the velvety shadow given off by a large stalactite. He stepped forward, all delicate brows and high features, with beautiful silky hair. In many ways, Jaskier thought a bit indulgently, this man was what he would look like were he an elf. And a good portion more handsome. His stomach twisted in knots at the thought of all the people that Geralt must have met who put the bard’s own meagre attractiveness to shame. No wonder the Witcher was less than enthused to have him stay at his side. That and his inability to keep his mouth shut. He winced again at the memory. 

“Your insolence is astonishing, for a man in your position. If I were you, I would put a good deal of effort into being more courteous, yes?”

“Hmm. I thought you were the one in need of my services, not the other way round. And you accosted me on the road and insisted I come here, disregarding that I might have had somewhere else to be.”

“Once again, Wolf, I would advise you to school your tongue into some sense of diplomacy. Lest you fancy losing it. You won’t need it to complete the task I require of you.”

Jaskier had to hide a small smile, despite his fear. Geralt was not skilled in the art of diplomacy. Asking him to be courteous towards someone who had brought him into their home in such an untoward manner was like asking him to set down his swords and take up wine making. The bard nearly snorted out loud. The thought of his prickly friend bent over plants in a vineyard was enough to lighten even this, the most dire of circumstances. 

Geralt had stepped forward now, but his usually imposing height put him barely on level with the lord. Jaskier considered that the man might be wearing heeled boots for this exact reason, but he also knew that people of elven descent were notoriously tall. It was strange to see Geralt in a situation where he didn’t have the physical upper hand. Though he was considerably bulkier and probably far more skilled a fighter than a man who spent his days in silken robes, safely tended by legions of men armed to the teeth.

They stood there for a moment, the well-dressed lord not backing down, catching Geralt’s eye and holding it with disturbing resolve. Most people could not hold a Witcher’s eye for long. Eventually, he started to laugh, a disturbing peal that echoed about the cave, making it seem as though multitudes of other men were cackling along in the shadows. Jaskier shuddered.

“Come now,” he chuckled, slapping Geralt’s shoulder so hard that the Witcher tipped forward a bit, looking very displeased, “There’s no need to start out the evening with such unpleasantness. I’m a poor host, not even inviting you to my dining hall. Follow me, good sirs. We should discuss this contract over a glass of fine wine, and a warm bowl of stew. You look as though you’ve been travelling for many weary days.”

The constant flip-flopping was beginning to exhaust the bard, and he couldn’t even fathom how it was affecting Geralt. He looked up at the Witcher, but could glean nothing from his expression. He was rather confused the man hadn’t tried to leave yet. There was clearly something very wrong here. The lord, who hadn’t even had the courtesy to introduce himself, instead leaving that job to his commander, hadn’t even bothered to veil his threats. If there was ever a time to make a hasty escape, Jaskier thought surely it must be now. Though, he hadn’t been travelling with the Witcher for that long. Perhaps there was some unfathomable reason why he was subjecting them to this instead of simply fighting his way out.

They followed Lord Corvin, for Jaskier had now remembered that was his name, through another dank passageway. He wrinkled his nose against the smell of rot and decay that permeated the whole place, sticking close to Geralt’s back. Eventually, they ascended a treacherously slippery set of stairs hewn straight out of the rock, and came out in a barren dining hall, at the far end of which there was an imposing table and single chair set upon a dais, as well as a hearth that stood nearly twelve feet up from the floor. The whole place was cold, colder even that the cavern from whence they had come. There was frost on the windows and the walls, which was strange, since it was not winter. Jaskier shivered fearfully. His heart was still pounding.

Lord Corvin’s velvet cloak brushed along the floor, making the noise of rustling autumn leaves. It was the only sound to be heard besides the clacking of boots. About halfway through the hall he made a dramatic half turn and halted, lifting a hand and snapping his fingers imperiously. 

“Wine!”

A woman, dressed all in rags, shuffled out from the passage. She presented Corvin with a tray, cowering. There was a bruise around her right eye that had left it nearly swollen shut. Jaskier did not have to think for long to guess who had given it to her.

Corvin passed them the wine, then snapped again, and the girl dragged a bench into the middle of the room. It took an uncomfortably long time for her to complete the task, and Jaskier was left staring awkwardly at his boots as a loud scraping noise echoed through the hall. He sat with a good amount of relief, and was glad to see the girl scurrying away as soon as she had completed her task. Hopefully to somewhere where she would not be injured by her master.

Geralt sank down on the bench next to Jaskier, and Corvin ascended the dais and settled himself daintily in the high-backed black chair that resided there. It was extremely uncomfortable, to be seated so far below him. Sometime during their ascent from the cavern, the captain had also disappeared. Despite the emptiness of the room, Jaskier felt as though it could not contain the strange, stormy energy that radiated off Corvin. It made him shiver. He sipped at his wine nervously, though he knew Geralt would have knocked it out of his hand long ago had there been anything amiss with it.

“So,” Corvin spread his hands, long sleeves draping out like the wings of some great beast, spreading across the floor, “We come to the crux of the matter. I suppose you’re wondering why you’ve been asked to come here?”

“I don’t recall any asking.” 

A flicker of anger passed over Corvin’s pale face, and Jaskier resisted the urge to elbow Geralt in the ribs. Now was not the time to be making smart remarks. And Jaskier never missed an opportunity to make a smart remark.

“As I said, Witcher, guard your tongue carefully. It is…a most precious ornament. Both in and out of your mouth.”

“Get to the point,” Geralt snarled, and Jaskier could feel impatience and irritation radiating off every tensed muscle in his body, “I don’t intend to waste my day exchanging pleasantries. Or any other sort of small talk.”

“Ah,” the smile that split Corvin’s face was so broad that Jaskier thought it looked more like a slashing cut than a mouth, “Well, I instructed my captain to give you…limited details, when he went to retrieve you. So I trust you have at least a basic understanding of what it is I require of you?”

“Barely. I need details if I’m going to complete any sort of contract. Saying you have a pest problem in the sewers is not detailed enough for me to accept work. Such conditions could apply to nearly every mid-sized city on the Continent.”

“Ah. And that is why you’ve been brought here, Witcher. Can’t be sowing fear through the streets of my city, now, can I?”

“As far as I could tell, there was no one there to sow fear to. No scent of people occupying those streets for weeks. Not so much as a horse stabled at the inn. You can’t expect me to believe everyone simply left of their own volition.”

Corvin waved a lazy hand, which fluttered through the air, flickering slightly as it encountered the dusty light filtering in through a dirty window. 

“Not entirely, no. They left out of fear, took refuge in the mountains until the danger passes. No one wants to be snatched from his own home in the middle of the night.”

“Indeed.”

“Hence why you’ve been brought here. I need you to travel into the sewers, eradicate whatever it is that’s been stealing our people. Unfortunately, I can’t give you much more information beyond that. Only that it attacks at night, drags people away, and they are never seen again. No blood, no screams, no sign of a fight. Just…vanished.”

Corvin’s face seemed to cloud over with sadness at this last bit, shadowing and suddenly aging in the greyish light of the room. His hand, before so animated, hung limply from his arm, dead weight. It was a poetic image, highlighted in the dusty emptiness of the vast chamber. Geralt, however, did not look saddened by this news. His brows were crinkled, and he looked confused.

“Such beasts always leave a distinct sign, something to mark their passage, even if it’s just a track or a trace of blood. Sewer-dwelling creatures are not like wraiths or wights, they can’t simply enter and exit without a trace. They are physical beings, and leave physical signs. What aren’t you telling me?”

“I’ve been nothing but honest with you, Witcher.”

“Then why the need to coerce me into coming here? Why not simply post a notice like everyone else?”

The lord smiled a bit, not the grin of before, but something equally as unsettling, for reasons Jaskier couldn’t quite put his finger on. He chuckled.

“Because, Witcher, I knew you would refuse. The rest of them certainly did. It is of little consequence to me now.”

It was nothing. Barely a flick of the head; a motion Jaskier would never have noticed if he hadn’t reflected on what must have tipped Geralt off later on. But a moment after the slightest flicker of the lord’s dark hair, the bard found himself on his back, spine and ribs smarting. The bench upon which he and Geralt had been sitting had toppled, and he saw now that the Witcher was holding one of its wooden legs in his gloved hands, crouched menacingly, teeth bared. He also saw, once he had shaken out the stars that clouded his vision and the confusion that clouded his mind, that there were armed men advancing on all sides. Their visors pulled low, armour painted a matte black, leather boots scuffing with barely a noise on the stone floor. Terrified, the bard scrambled back against the bench, wishing very much that he had resisted more strongly to his weapons being taken. 

Geralt waited until the men were nearly upon them before he attacked. And when he did, he relied on the element of surprised almost immediately, throwing the leg of the bench at the tallest of the men and drawing the dagger that he had not been relieved of. He cut down the first soldiers easily, fighting to incapacitate, but not kill. It was a habit that Jaskier had noted as a constant in the Witcher’s fighting style whenever he found himself in an altercation with humans. The first several men fell clutching wounded legs and arms, groaning but unable to regain their feet. Another man fell nearly in front of Jaskier, causing him to scrabble backwards a bit further as blood poured from under his visor. The man was moaning, a low, agonized sound. 

When the bard looked up again, Geralt had managed to acquire a sword, and was facing several adversaries at once. Jaskier winced. It seemed that for every man the Witcher cut down, Corvin had two more ready to take his place. He thought back to the armed column outside. If that was only a glimpse of the military capacity held in this fortress, Jaskier hated to think how long this could go on for. And Geralt would, eventually, tire.

As he watched, the Witcher pirouetted away from one blade, crossing his sword and dagger behind his back to catch another. He spun that blade and the man holding it around to his front and pushed him into one of his armed counterparts, sending the two of them stumbling backwards. During this moment of confusion, he kicked the legs out from under the third man, slashing his side on the way down. It was a graceful maneuver, far too easily executed for someone who had already felled nearly thirty men. Jaskier was reminded, with a shiver, that Geralt was anything but human.

He was, however, beginning to reach the end of his endurance. Corvin was chuckling, motioning more men into the hall. It had been nearly twenty minutes since the fight had begun. Geralt’s shirt was sticking to his back with sweat, and his breath was coming heavily. Jaskier recognized the signs of his exhaustion, and his own heart began to speed up. He didn’t even understand why they were being attacked, other than that Corvin wanted to coerce Geralt into entering his sewers. It was a frightening, confusing situation, and one that Jaskier very much wanted a sudden and daring rescue from. 

Finally, ten men in black armour ran into the room. They poured in in bursts, as though waiting for some cue to be given, rather like Jaskier did before going on stage. This group, though, was different. They moved as one, as a coordinated group of fighters as opposed to the individual, desperate motions of the previous men. They drew their swords in one breath. Attacked as one man. And Jaskier’s heart sank deep into his boots even as Corvin’s high, piercing laugh echoed through the hall.

“Even you grow tired, mutant. I learned that the first go round. And it had proved most useful in the subsequent times.”

Jaskier felt his blood run cold, as he began to suss out exactly what might have happened, why Corvin wanted Geralt so badly. And then, he felt the icy sharpness of a steel blade, pressed to his throat. It cut into him as he swallowed, let out a surprised squeak. Blood dribbled down his neck, and Geralt whirled and met his eyes. The Witcher’s expression flashed with anger, and the bard winced.

“I’m…sorry,” he whispered, trying to move as little as possible against the blade, “Shouldn’t’ve come here.”

Again, Geralt’s eyes flashed furiously. There was blood dribbling from his nose, setting a tandem beat with the liquids dripping off his blade. He whirled and faced Corvin, and Jaskier let his eyes droop to the floor. He had failed Geralt far too many times already. The Witcher was right. He would do nothing but hold him back.

“Drop your weapon, mutant. Or your whore dies.”

Jaskier thought he heard Geralt snarl at that, which made his face colour a bit. Was the Witcher truly so repulsed at the thought that he could be bedding him? 

Geralt dropped his sword, and it clanged hollowly against the stone floor. Jaskier winced. He was proving to be a weakness. A liability. If they made it out of here alive, the bard hoped that Geralt would dismiss him from his side. He was proving to be nothing but trouble. And he couldn’t bring himself to leave Geralt without being asked. Another weakness on his part. He felt a tear prickle at the corner of his eye, heard his father’s angry words again. The world blurred for a time and he swayed against his captor’s grip.

When Jaskier finally managed to pull himself back from the memories of his father, two guards had taken Geralt by the shoulders and pushed him to his knees in front of Corvin. There were copious streams of blood dribbling from the Witcher’s face, and a wicked bruise was blooming under his right eye. 

“I have long desired to get my hands on you, White Wolf. The others, they couldn’t survive my game. For all their mutations and skills with the blade, they couldn’t make it through. But I’ve heard that you’re different, even from your fellow Witchers. And I’m very curious to put that theory to the test.”

Jaskier trembled and watched as Geralt lifted his battered head. The bard wondered how long he had drifted for. Geralt looked very much so worse for wear. His head was hanging dizzily on his neck, and his blinking suggested he was having difficulty focusing. Jaskier felt hot anger curl in his gut, along with a healthy amount of shame that he was powerless to stop the sick exchange playing out in front of him. He was weak. Too weak to be a worthy travelling companion for a Witcher. And now Geralt was going to pay the price for that weakness. 

“The fuck do you want from me?” Geralt’s whole jaw was clenched, and his voice was tight, controlled, as though he was swallowing back his words.

“You are a curiosity, Witcher,” Corvin leaned languidly to one side, tipping the fine edges of his face into the dusty light, creating a dramatic picture, “And I would like to learn from you and your kind. I am, after all, a scientist. So, I have devised a test. A game, of sorts, located in the sewers and designed to test the abilities of your mutations. Survive, and your bard will meet you outside the city’s walls. Die…and, well, I don’t suppose you’d like to hear what will happen to him. I hear that the brain structure of those inclined towards the liberal arts is very interesting. Especially when studied while the subject is still alive.”

Jaskier shuddered and tried not to whimper. This was not what he had meant when he had sung odes to heroics and heartbreak. Geralt twisted a bit in the grip of the men holding him, caught the bard’s eye. His expression was unreadable, and Jaskier felt himself slump. He felt utterly hopeless, utterly useless. It was his fault they had come here, and now he couldn’t even keep Geralt from meeting what would probably be a gruesome fate. As the Witcher turned away, Jaskier felt another tear pool in his eye. He didn’t particularly care for his fate at this point. Only that he had dragged someone else into danger with him. Someone who hadn’t even asked for his company. 

“Once you enter the sewers, you will be given a dagger. I will observe you along the way, but know now that you will not be helped. The corpses of your predecessors are down there. Perhaps they can serve as a reminder that you are on your own, now?”

Geralt kicked one of his captors, but it was mostly for show. The room was filled with guards now, and he was disarmed and disoriented. Everyone there knew he had no choice but to do what the lord said. Corvin jerked his head again, and the two men dragged Geralt from the room, not even giving him the time to get his feet underneath him, leaving his boots tripping and dragging on the stones. Jaskier watched him go, hatred for himself and for the whole ordeal pooling in his gut like a black sickness. He couldn’t even lift his head once Geralt was gone. The guard pushed his chin up with the dagger, but his eyes were blurry and his mind was floating somewhere else. It took several hard slaps to bring him back, and when he did return it was to spit blood on the floor and stare with revulsion at his own injury and weakness, paling in comparison to what Geralt was about to experience. 

“Ah, bard,” Corvin had descended from his chair now, and his robes swished across the floor, delicate hands fluttering in time with his speech, “I suppose you and I will have plenty of time to get to know one another, now that your valiant knight is currently fighting for your freedom. It’s strange, don’t you think, how Witchers claim to be attached to no one, and yet the instant I threatened you he dropped his weapons? Tell me, little lark, what he feels like. What it feels like to warm yourself against his flesh, to take your pleasure from his skin. It must be different, with one who feels nothing in return.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jaskier’s voice trembled, and he wished very desperately that it wouldn’t, “He doesn’t even want me. I all but forced him to allow me to travel with him.”

Corvin laughed then, and ran a long, pale finger down Jaskier’s cheek. The bard resisted the urge to bite him, knowing it would only make things worse for him in the end. When the hand settled around his neck, he couldn’t even struggle backwards. It squeezed uncomfortably, and he gasped for air, heart rabbiting in his chest.

“For all the time you artists spend watching others, you mustn’t be very in tune with their desires. He hungers for you, bard. I can practically see the drool running down his chin. I’m surprised he was able to control his urges. After all, he is little more than a beast.”

The lord licked his finger then, and traced the warm wetness over Jaskier’s collarbone. He wanted to puke as he felt the saliva grow cold on his skin. It prickled and felt burning all at once, and he thought he had never felt so violated by such a benign gesture.

With a sharp change in demeanour, Corvin suddenly snapped upright. He fisted his hand around Jaskier’s hair and pulled the bard up with him, smiling wickedly when he winced and shuddered.

“Come with me, little lark. Let’s go see how your Witcher fares, no? I’m sure you’re as interested as I am. After all, the trials I’m about to put him through will be worthy of the best ballads. And I have been reassured that you work at the top of your craft.”

Corvin turned and marched down the hall, not releasing his unforgiving grip on Jaskier’s hair. Disoriented and frightened and pulled down by his insurmountable guilt, the bard couldn’t even struggle as the lord dragged him down damp and musty hallways, deep into the belly of the earth and away from even the faintest memory of the light.


	2. Both Sides Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt is presented with a series of challenges that may push him beyond his own limits. Both Geralt and Jaskier are consumed with guilt over their current predicament.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Brief suicidal ideation (nothing graphic), and some veiled threats of non-consensual sex (Corvin is an ass and I hate him even though he's my own creation).

Geralt was at a loss. Though, he supposed, he was often at a loss when it came to the bard who had rather unexpectedly inserted himself into his life. Today, though, had been odd from the beginning. Jaskier’s energy was strange; what was normally a calm lake felt like a roiling sea, and there had been several times when Geralt had turned to see what he thought were tears pooling in the other man’s eyes. Clearly, the Witcher had done something to upset him. Geralt couldn’t fathom what this might have been, but unfortunately this was frequently the case when he caused others upset. He appreciated straightforwardness and honesty, and so often this was not the human approach to dealing with conflict. So, when Jaskier had made his little comment about Geralt being monstrous, the Witcher had let it slide, thinking it was just the bard’s way of expressing his displeasure. When he had apologized later on, Geralt had been surprised, and had felt a rush of something near to fondness in his chest. He had brought Jaskier up on Roach, sensing the strange emotions still surging within him, and allowed him to ride the rest of the way into town on her back.

It had all come to a head so shortly after that, he reflected now. The turmoil he sensed in Jaskier, rising in tandem with the escalation of the situation upon their arrival in Errowhal. The bard’s pain nearly made Geralt begin to feel sick, and it wasn’t even his own. Confused and utterly at a loss as to what was upsetting the bard, he had been slow. Slow and careless, allowing them to be led straight into a trap like that. And now, through no one’s fault but his own, he was being dragged away to what was quite possibly his death. Though, he supposed, this was always the way it was meant to happen. Witchers got slow. They got slow, and they got killed. That was the path.

However selfishly, though, Geralt had always hoped to be ended quickly. Quickly, and by some impressive and exceptionally rare monster, something intriguing, so when his brothers heard the news of his demise, they would be sufficiently curious. Perhaps his death would even be added into the creature’s description in the bestiary. That was about as much of a legacy as Geralt had ever desired. Now, though, he was about to be killed by a mad elf, disguised as a human by a glamour so transparent that he was surprised it had fooled anyone at all. Although he had his doubts that there were any living inhabitants here beyond the armed men he had already encountered. The streets were empty. And this whole keep reeked of death.

He was jerked suddenly from his thoughts when he was deposited bruisingly hard on the damp floor. Having been dragged along by aching arms for what felt like hours, Geralt was so shocked by this sudden change that he nearly pitched forwards before catching his balance. He hadn’t been wounded in the fight with Corvin’s men, not really. A few bruises perhaps, and a knock on the head that had barely even fazed him. If it hadn’t been for the lord’s threat on Jaskier’s life, Geralt was sure he could have fought his way out. Perhaps with a bit more lasting damage than just bruises; he had been tiring. But he would have been able to get them out safely. Damn Corvin and his ability to read that nothing more than holding a knife to Jaskier’s neck would make Geralt stop in his tracks. It was a weakness, and not one that Geralt was proud of or wanted exploited.

He was drifting, he realized. Focusing on anything but the present, and the situation he had so foolishly allowed himself to fall into. Vesemir would have been disappointed. An inattentive Witcher nearly always became a dead one in very short order, as Geralt had been reminded of over and over by his old master during his years training at Kaer Morhen.

Pulling his distracted mind back to the present, Geralt realized that there was an ominous clanking coming from somewhere behind him. Ever alert, and with a deep hatred of having his back to anyone who intended to cause him harm, Geralt spun on his knees. The moment he saw what was happening, his stomach circled and swirled inside his chest, and plummeted down to near his feet.

There were two guards behind him, presumably the same ones that had dragged him from Corvin’s cold dining hall. One was standing near the door, doing an impressive job of keeping his face neutral despite the fear that Geralt could heart in his thundering, heaving heart. The other, though, did not show fear. His heart was even, if a bit accelerated from an emotion that seemed to be anticipation. There was a cruelty in his dark, drawn brows and the lopsided cant of his mouth, marred by a reddened scar. In his hands, he held what appeared to be a set of shackles. They glowed dully in the flickering torchlight, a deep green and purple. Even from across the room, Geralt could feel the sudden drain on his energy. He fought the urge to sag forwards onto his elbows, his heart rate accelerating even though he tried to slow it. It had been years, decades perhaps, since he had been exposed to dimeritium. Geralt couldn’t even remember what it had felt like. The pain had been so great that, in an effort to protect him from nightmares, his brain had sought to erase all his memories of it. But now that the metal was so close to him, Geralt could feel his body’s alarm bells going off, every inch of him screaming to run far, far away from here, to simply kill everyone and go. But he couldn’t. Not if it meant Corvin would kill Jaskier. He had condemned himself to this the moment he had laid down his swords in the hall, and for some strange and irrational reason, he didn’t regret it. Not if it meant the bard would live and stay safe.

The cruel looking guard was approaching him now, that vile slash of a mouth quirked upwards in a gruesome and unsettling approximation of a smile.

“Our Lord’s been most eager to test these on someone with a bit more resilience. The mages, they took mere hours to succumb and give the lord nothing but their deaths and bodies to be autopsied. But we hear you’re made of stronger stuff, even compared to your fellow Witchers. Perhaps you’ll entertain us for a bit longer, no?”

Geralt didn’t dignify that little comment with an answer, although he stored away the information about the mages. If Corvin had captured other magical beings before him, perhaps some of them had found a way to survive. Or at least, had left some signs behind them that would help Geralt find a way through this mess and back to Jaskier.

The guard rattled the chains impatiently, and held his arms out in a motion that Geralt was clearly meant to copy. If he could have flushed, he would have. Witchers were not meant to give in so easily. Every ounce of his training was telling him to fight this, not meekly give way and allow these men to shackle him. It was humiliating, and wrong, and went against every fibre of survival instinct Geralt possessed. He repeated Jaskier’s name in his mind, trying to conjure up an image of Corvin vivisecting the bard, cutting into that pale skin while the man was awake and his bright eyes wide with terror. The thought made him feel sick, and he thrust out his hands without thinking too much about what he was doing, focusing instead on the imagined screams of the bard and the cold stones and water soaking and digging into him as he knelt in the dirt.

The guard stepped forwards, and the chains rattled ominously as he unwound them. Geralt stayed still, an immense amount of willpower keeping his hands from jerking away as the man wrapped the first manacle around his wrist, let it click shut with a frightening air of finality. He gritted his teeth as he felt his chaos begin disappear, not gone, just shut out of his mind. As the second manacle clamped around his wrist, there was a rush of pain, a sudden burst of nausea, and the immediate onset of a headache. Geralt swallowed stubbornly, keeping his balance against the onslaught. He couldn’t let them see how this affected him.

As he raised his suddenly aching head, though, he realized the guard had not yet finished. There was another set of chains in his hands, and he looped them about a few times, yanking a collar into view. Geralt winced as it skittered across the floor, splashing in the fetid puddles of water.

“You didn’t think I’d let you off so easily now, did you? The master was most clear that we were to push you as far as you could take. And based on your reaction to the cuffs, I think you’ll be more than able to complete his tests with this on as well.”

He moved forward then, a wicked smile on his face. Geralt could still, vaguely, sense the heartbeats of both guards. They had accelerated, one out of excitement and the other out of terror. Sighing, Geralt closed his eyes and tipped his head back, exposing his neck in a way that made him want to shudder and run. He kept repeating Jaskier’s name over and over in his mind. This was his fault. His slowness had led the bard into danger, something the man was not accustomed to. The least Geralt could do was take this punishment as best he could, and use his own resilience to prevent any further hurt from coming to the bard.

The collar burned when it closed around his throat. Though, when he thought about it, the manacles did too. It was just easier to ignore the pain from the skin around his wrists, worn rough from years of fighting and from many sets of shackles that had been placed on them before today. The sensitive skin of his neck, though, was soft and thin, marred by very few scars. Every time he swallowed, every movement he made, caused the chains to rattle and the pain to refocus, twice as strong and twice as noticeable as the pain in his arms. He tried to school his expression and keep his face neutral, but knew he was failing as the dark-haired guard chuckled to himself.

“Mutant bastard,” he said, and Geralt could hear the malevolent smile on his voice, “Our master will be most pleased to hear about your resilience, I think. If you survive long enough for me to tell him.”

Now that the dimeritium was closed around his neck, Geralt felt his headache and the aches and pains in his body increase exponentially. His own weight became impossibly heavy, and almost without realizing it he found himself collapsing forwards onto his elbows and knees. No matter how hard he gasped, the air seemed too thin, completely unsatisfying to his starved lungs. And yet he remained completely aware, completely conscious of each and every one of his hurts and where they were located. His mind was clear, almost too clear now that it was free of the magic he could usually access. Clear and focused only on the pain and the nausea. His arms shook underneath him. The dirt and water swam in and out of focus. A boot connected with his side, and he splashed down into a muddy puddle, the water going up his nose and clogging his right ear, skewing his sense of balance. Screwing his brow together, Geralt swallowed back a groan. He was a Witcher. He had been created to suffer through this sort of pain so people like Jaskier didn’t have to. And so he would.

After a few moments, Geralt managed to regain control over his limbs. He stopped shaking quite so badly, and the pain became a constant thudding as opposed to an overwhelming, searing agony. He pushed himself back onto his elbows and knees, gritting his teeth as the light from the torch assaulted his suddenly sensitive eyes. He felt so heavy, as though the cuffs were weighing him down, pulling him into some deeply-buried hell. The guard was still laughing. Something clanged down in front of him; a small silver dagger with a wolf engraved on the hilt, and ruby eyes. The dagger given to him by Eskel, which he had surrendered at the entrance. A little shiver of relief went through him to have it back again.

“For your time in the sewers, Wolf. Make it out, and the bard lives. Although I’m sure Corvin gave you enough information for you to know that you won’t.”

Geralt shuddered, and reached a shackled hand forward to pick up the dagger. He could barely lift it to tuck it into his belt. The guard snorted.

“You might not even get as far as we thought. Any chance we can call off that bet, Erick?”

He turned towards the other guard, the frightened one, with that last statement. The man simply stared, his mouth working but no words coming out. Sweat was pouring off his brow, and Geralt wondered in a dazed sort of way if he was ill.

“Ah, don’t mind Erick,” the dark-haired guard turned back to him again, grinning cruelly, “He’s an idiot. Probably doesn’t even know what a bet is. Oh, well. Either way, you’ll die, and I’ll make some money from it. Not that there’s anything else to do in this bastard place.”

The guard kicked at a stone petulantly, and Geralt watched it plop and skitter through several puddles before coming to rest next to the wall. Its movements were dizzying. All his senses were skewed miserably, blurring and distorting everything around him. It seemed to him that the world had a pulse of its own, blurring and coming back into focus, and stripping him of his ability to use even the most basic of his senses, upon which he usually relied so heavily. Even his eyes ached, so much so that he allowed them to droop and close while the guards moved about him, presumably preparing the chamber for whatever horrors were to come next.

Time seemed to ooze together, a thick, syrupy substance that flowed around Geralt’s shackled form and dragged him down. He was swaying on his knees by the time someone finally approached him, grabbed his chin roughly and jerked his aching head upwards. He blinked slowly, trying to regain a sense of where he was and what had happened.

“This is where we part ways, bastard. Can’t say it’s been a particular pleasure making your acquaintance, but I do always enjoy being the last human face one of your ilk sees before they die. And I’m looking forwards to seeing how you, in particular, meet your end. You strike me as being more willing to fight than some of the others.”

Here he rattled the chain attached to the manacles cruelly, before disconnecting them and essentially freeing Geralt’s arms, except for the fact that they were still circled heavily in the dimeritium. Geralt hadn’t realized how much of his weight those chains were holding. Without them, he slumped forwards again, head smacking against the rough stone ground. Stars burst before his eyes. The guard poked at him dispassionately with the steel toe of his boot.

“Not off to a good start, eh Witcher? I hope your condition improves, at least a little. It’ll make for a more interesting death.”

With that, he cackled, and gestured to Erick, who followed him out of the room. The smaller man turned once before closing the door, and their eyes met for a split second. Geralt thought he saw tears swimming in the guard’s eyes, and his hands were shaking around the keys, which rattled maddeningly in his grip. He mouthed some words, but Geralt’s vision kept blurring, and he couldn’t make out what they might mean. Then, with a hollow rasping sound and an echoing boom, the door shut, locking Geralt in alone with only the guttering light of the torch and the skittering of unseen rats to keep him from feeling completely abandoned.

Bracing himself against the floor, the Witcher slowly picked himself up, eventually making his way to stand on trembling legs. He had to brace against the wall, and the effort left him panting, dimeritium sapping his strength like sugar from a maple tree. He stood and listened, but couldn’t make out a sound. Wondering what he was meant to do next, he leaned his forehead against the cool water dripping down the stone wall. Already, there was an unnatural heat working its way underneath his skin, prickling at his nerves and leaving him sensitive and raw. Fever was a common side effect of dimeritium, but Geralt hadn’t expected it to affect him so quickly. He would be laid low before he even had a chance to fight his way out, at this rate. Shivers coursed through his sore body, and he tried to anchor his thoughts on Jaskier. The bard who hadn’t asked for any of this, and who was prepared for it even less. Geralt had to try, for him. The boy was barely nineteen years of age. And Geralt hadn’t done enough to drive him away, after they had met in Posada. If any harm came to him, it would be no one’s fault but Geralt’s.

There was another thudding noise then, and Geralt felt a rush of cold air swirl across his feverish skin. It brought with it a wave of gooseflesh, and he tried his best to contain a convulsive shiver. His flesh was rent open, raw and bare. He felt like he had been flayed alive.

Turning towards the sound and the point of origin of the cool air, Geralt saw a dark shape, probably an opening in the wall, that had not been there a moment ago. He sighed. Part of him had sincerely hoped, up until this point, that Corvin’s odes to a trial had been nothing more than a tactic to frighten him, to get him to break and take some sort of suicidal contract (which he probably would have done anyways if the lord had been more direct with him; for the right price at least). But this did not have the scent of a contract. Everything about this room had been carefully designed, created to hold magical beings captive. Even the dimeritium, a rare and expensive metal, had been curated to cause creatures like himself pain. There could be no further doubt as to Corvin’s intentions. Though Geralt did spare a confused thought for why the lord, who was himself a creature of magic, would do such a thing. He quickly abandoned the line of questioning, though. Wondering why this had happened to him would not help him survive.

It was clear that he was meant to descend into the darkened rift opened in the wall, so, sighing, Geralt shoved himself off the wall and stumbled towards it, trying to keep his legs underneath him. He was desperately dizzy, and his vision was darkening with the effort of standing. Luckily, his sight didn’t seem to be terribly impacted by the dimeritium; as the hidden door clanged ominously shut behind him he found he was still able to make things out in the pitch darkness.

In front of him was a set of stairs, carved straight into the rock. The whole tunnel was dank and smelt of death and decay, as though something had died in here and the body not been removed. It was a scent that Geralt was all too familiar with. Pushing himself onwards, he tripped and stumbled his way down the stairs, which were slippery with moss and mildew. A few times he fell, pathetically, smacking his arms against the ridges of the steps. A few more bruises, then, but the energy-sucking power of the dimeritium was so overwhelming that Geralt couldn’t find it within himself to care. His whole body ached so much with fever that the bruises hardly made a difference.

The stairs seemed to go on forever. When Geralt finally reached the bottom, he was winded, and the shackles on his arms weighed him down so much that he had to rest his hands on his knees for a moment and catch his breath. His neck was impossibly sore from the collar; it was burning ever so slowly against his skin, reddening and irritating it.

He hardly had a moment to catch his breath, though. As soon as he took in a shuddering gasp of air, a very familiar scent worked its way into his nose, one so strong that he could nearly taste it. Drowners. Several of them, based on how pungent it was. Geralt cursed. Drew his dagger with a shaking, heavy hand. Tried to get into some approximation of a fighting stance, though he was too uncoordinated and ill feeling to truly take stock of all his limbs and arrange them in any sort of comprehensible way. A screech echoed through the passageway, darkened and twisting ahead of him. He made his way back up a few stairs, hoping that at least having the higher ground would give him a slight advantage. Though he couldn’t help but think that it would in no way make up for his significant handicaps.

The splashing footsteps of the drowners came faster now, and before Geralt could truly catch his breath and prepare himself, the first one came hurtling around the corner, snarling and baring its teeth. It was huge, its blue skin and reddened eyes practically glowing in the dark. Disgusted, Geralt slashed his dagger through its distended belly, killing it with one stroke. Satisfied, he heaved a sigh of relief. He was still able to fight, should the need arise. Perhaps the dimeritium hadn’t weakened him as much as he thought, now that there was adrenaline flowing through his veins.

More footsteps splashed up the tunnel then, and Geralt had no more time to reflect on his weakened abilities. Four drowners splashed towards him at once, and armed with only his dagger, arms weakening, the Witcher found himself hard-pressed to defend himself. Even on the higher ground of the stairs, he struggled. His shaking legs kept slipping on the damp ground, and most of the damage he caused the drowners was either by luck or reflexes honed from years on the path. He killed two by pushing them down the stairs, beheaded the third with an accidental stroke that was mostly due to him being too weak to stop his arm swinging, and the fourth made a leap to attack him at the precise moment he slipped on the stairs. He swung his dagger up as it went sailing over his head, relieving it of its entrails, which fell in a warm, sticky mass around him. Wrinkling his nose at the scent of intestines, Geralt hauled himself shakily to his feet, wobbling as dizziness assaulted him. He gripped the wall, feeling his hand slipping as he tried to right himself. His vision blurred as though he had just taken far too much Thunderbolt. It was a sickening feeling, especially since he was more than aware that he had only survived due to his reflexes, and the fact that drowners were inherently stupid. There was no telling what would happen if Corvin had managed to seek out some more intelligent monsters to populate his little experiment.

After what felt like far too long, Geralt got his legs to work again, and he managed to stumble down the stairs. At the bottom was an old, broken torch bracket, with several metal bars hanging loosely off it. With shaking hands, Geralt tore one bar away and stuck it under his arm, fashioning a sort of makeshift crutch. He had twisted his ankle at some point on the stairs, and though it was not a serious injury, it throbbed. With his already addled senses, a wounded leg was not something to be taken lightly. It was with considerably more caution that Geralt limped on down the tunnel.

With nothing by which to mark the time, Geralt couldn’t tell how long he had been wandering aimlessly through the darkness. Occasionally, he thought he heard a rat skitter by, or something knock in the dark. Each time, he drew his dagger, heart thundering, ready for whatever horror Corvin had prepared for him next. But each time it was nothing more than a noise, a dizzying assault on his senses. He felt well and truly sick, the dimeritium making his pulse rise and nausea roil in his gut, along with the fever sizzling under his skin. The few times when he dared to look down at his arms, he saw his veins, raised and blackened against the pale skin in the same way they were after he took Cat. The dark veins radiated outwards from the cuffs, and he had no doubt that his neck was in a similar state. Trying not to entertain the thought of what might happen when the blackness reached his heart, Geralt trudged on. The metal bracket was digging into his arm, but he could not walk without it. Several times, he sagged into the wall, unable to go on until his mind conjured up a picture of Jaskier, terrified, blood dripping down his pale, delicate neck. Guilt besieged Geralt then, and something that felt a bit like fear. Each time, he hauled himself up, wincing, and kept on going. Surely, there had to be an end to this tunnel somewhere. He had only to hold on until it was within sight.

Eventually, when all but the most desperately clinging tendrils of hope had abandoned him, Geralt found himself half falling into a wide-open chamber. The change in the sound of his echoing footsteps was enough to confuse him, and he found himself lying dizzily on his back, waiting for his nausea to pass. There was a strange quality to the sound in this room; even his own breath seemed to be stolen from him, the sounds not returning to his ears in the way he expected them to. At first, he assumed it was nothing more than the dimeritium addling his senses. His neck was bleeding now, a thick, foul black ichor, as were his hands, and he was very fevered. But as he lay on the ground and regained his senses, the odd absence of sound didn’t go away. In fact, it got more pronounced. Geralt sat up, wincing, and turned his head slowly, trying to figure out what was happening.

“I must admit,” a booming, echoing voice suddenly filled the chamber and nearly caused Geralt to faint from the sudden assault on his sensitive ears, “I didn’t expect you to make it this far. All the mages I brought here died at the drowners, once the dimeritium kept them from using their precious magic to help them survive. The few Witchers I’ve had, well, they went mad from the dimeritium poisoning wandering the tunnels. A few arrived at this room, but when I tried to address them, they were too delirious from fever to make for very entertaining or interesting company. You, White Wolf, are an anomaly. A most interesting one.”

“Bastard,” Geralt ground out, voice rough from hours (or was it days?) of misuse, “As soon as I make it out of here, I’ll cut you apart piece by piece, one limb lost for everyone you’ve killed.”

Corvin laughed then, a light, tinkling sound that didn’t at all match his disposition. It bounced about the chamber, coming from high above, and somewhere in Geralt’s aching head he deduced that the lord must be speaking through some sort of tunnel that carried his voice into the upper parts of the chamber. It would explain the strange lack of echoing, the absorption of sound.

“While you may be famed for your skill with a blade, I guarantee you cannot best me. Especially now I have you appropriately…subdued. I must admit, I find the idea of having you in my company in such a state most appealing. You cut a striking figure, shackled in dimeritium.”

Trying not to venture into the implications of that statement too much, Geralt glared up at the distant, greenish ceiling above him.

“The fuck do you want from me?”

“To see how far you make it, my dear Witcher. You’ve nearly reached the end now, but as I said, no one has ever survived as long as you. I am most curious to see if your strength will carry you through the final step. We have already tested your physical strength, and your determination. This last step is of a more…personal nature.”

Geralt stayed sitting, chest heaving and burning, his fever making him ache. His mind suddenly unearthed a memory from several months ago, when Jaskier had said he was more than willing to tend to the Witcher’s wounds. Now, fevered and exhausted, the Witcher wondered if the bard wouldn’t be too repulsed by him to find him a soft bed full of warm furs and some hot tea, if they made it out alive. He had never had someone to tend to such details when he himself was indisposed, and his fevered brain was more than willing to admit it would be welcome. The more reasonable part of him was quick to offer a reminder that it was Geralt’s fault that they were in this damn mess in the first place. If he valued Jaskier’s company, he would have to do everything in his power just to keep the bard around. There would be no tenderness for him, not after such an idiotic mistake.

“I need proof the bard is alive before I continue on,” Geralt said, in what he hoped was an authoritative voice, “I was given your word he would not be harmed.”

A strange sort of scuffling noise filled the chamber then, along with muffled voices in the distance. There seemed to be some sort of brief argument, and then a clang which rang so loudly in Geralt’s ears he had to bury them in his hands.

“G-Geralt? Are you there?”

That was definitely the bard’s voice. Geralt could hear the terror in it, the slight tremble that accented his words in an unfamiliar way. It occurred to him then that he had never, or rarely ever, heard Jaskier frightened. Even now, underneath the fear, there was a reddish tinge of defiance colouring his words. Along with something that sounded aching and tired. Not disappointment. More like hopelessness.

“I’m here,” he called up, “They haven’t harmed you?”

“N-no…not yet. Are you…alright?”

Now there was another colour to Jaskier’s voice. Blue, Geralt thought, deep blue like the Skelligan seas. Guilty, perhaps. He shook himself. He must truly be fevered to be equating sounds to colours.

“Fine. Just…sore. Keep your mouth shut, yes? Don’t say anything idiotic, and you’ll be free to go soon.”

“A-and you?”

Geralt swallowed. He didn’t want to lie to the bard. And he couldn’t lie to himself. He was very weak, and getting sicker by the moment. The colours of the cavern were beginning to blur together. From what Corvin had said, no other prisoners had made it this far. Despite his relative lucidity at the moment, Geralt could also see the blackness in his veins climbing steadily higher up his arms and down his chest. He doubted he had long before he succumbed to the dimeritium.

That being said, if he died, he had no guarantee that Corvin would release the bard. Quite the opposite, in fact. Telling Jaskier that he suspected he was nearing the end of his endurance would do nothing but cause the other man to despair. It would be a kindness, Geralt thought, to allow him to live out his final few hours with some hope, however dim, that perhaps things would turn out for the best. After the bard’s bravery, the least Geralt could do was give him that gift.

“I’ll meet you soon.”

As soon as the words left his mouth, there was more rustling, and Corvin’s mirth-filled voice returned.

“Good of you to give your little whore hope. Though I’m afraid it’s nothing more than a lie. You mustn’t love him very much, to deceive him so. It doesn’t matter, though. You’ll be dead too soon to confront him about it.”

“He’s not…my whore.” Words were coming to Geralt with increasing difficulty. His head was hazy and he swayed on his knees.

“I’m sure. Now, come. The final part of the Trial is waiting for you.”

Those were words Geralt had heard once, and never wanted to hear repeated again. Echoes of the chambers under Kaer Morhen, where he had first undergone Trials, bounced about in his feverish, aching head. He stumbled to his feet, nearly blinded with dizziness, and tried to make his way towards the far side of the room. A door had opened there, through which he must be meant to go. His hands made contact with the floor several times, and before he made it halfway across the chamber, he was on his hands and knees, too weak to walk anymore. His ankle throbbed. All over, his veins felt as though they were turning to liquid under his skin. And yet, Geralt dragged himself onwards towards the door, Jaskier’s image at the forefront of his mind. Perhaps, by some miracle, Corvin would allow him to go free, if Geralt could only make it a little further.

Jaskier was in agony. Not the kind that burned through his muscles and veins; the kind that he felt after several days of trailing behind Geralt as the trekked through the wilds. No, this was a choking kind. The sort of pain that settled in his throat, made it hard to breathe. It was a pain derived of guilt, and there was nothing he could do to lay it to rest, since he knew that every burning breath was a pain he deserved.

He had allowed himself to be dragged from the dining hall, too broken and hurt to care overmuch anymore. He hated himself in that moment, hated that he had done this to the man he was growing to adore a little too much, to care for more than he should. He revelled in the pain of Corvin tugging at his scalp, breathed in deliciously when a bit of hair was ripped from his head and drew blood. The stinging pain, the heat of the blood, brought him clarity, allowed him to see how much of a failure he truly was. His father had been right, all along. And now, because he had stubbornly refused to believe him, Jaskier had endangered and quite possibly ended the life of someone he loved. He was selfish, far too selfish to deserve a painless death. He hoped Corvin would drag it out, let him feel every instant of pain after he had led Geralt to his death.

After a walk that did not seem nearly long enough, Jaskier felt himself being deposited on a cold, stony floor. He sat up numbly, rubbing at his neck. There was a small nick in it, from where the soldier had held a knife to his throat. He wished for that knife back, so he could push himself into its pain. Not enough to die. Just enough to know that he was still able to suffer in that way.

Corvin gestured rapidly at what appeared to be a pool of water set into the floor, and it shimmered and rippled strangely, a silvery glow spreading across it. Jaskier watched, too dazed to be surprised, as a picture eventually came into focus as the ripples stopped and the pool became like a glassy mirror. He choked a bit, though, when he saw what the image was of.

“Geralt…” It was no more than a whisper, but it hurt his throat. He wanted it to hurt more.

“Yes, it would seem your lover is having rather a difficult time,” Corvin sighed mockingly, “Though, despite his significant handicaps, he is doing surprisingly well. Truly astonishing, what a few extra rounds with the mutations can do to a man. If he is strong enough to survive it.”

Jaskier had no idea what Corvin was talking about. He knew, of course, that Witchers were subjected to horrific procedures which either strengthened or killed them. But all the talk of extra mutations went right over his head. He wanted nothing more than to crawl into the pool, into the picture he saw there, and wrap Geralt in his arms. Apologize for getting them into this horrible situation in the first place. Warm him a bit, comfort him. Though Jaskier doubted the Witcher would ever accept such tenderness from him now. He wished he had had a chance, before this happened, to hold Geralt. Just once. Maybe then he would understand that Jaskier cared for him, had never meant for any of this to happen.

The elf sat down next to Jaskier and pulled out a notebook. With a cruel, clinical gaze, he watched as the mirage-Geralt struggled along, each step agonizing. With a sharp, black quill, he took notes, humming to himself occasionally. The scratch of the quill on the parchment was enough to drive Jaskier nearly to distraction. What was normally a comforting sound to him had become evil and cruel.

Instead, he tried to focus all his attention on Geralt, as though perhaps if he stared hard enough, the Witcher would magically teleport here and escape whatever hell Corvin had sent him to. He looked a sight. There were shackles around his wrists and a metal collar about his neck. They weren’t attached to anything, but they seemed to weigh Geralt down unbearably. His arms were limp at his sides, his head barely supporting itself. Strange black tendrils extended up his pale wrists and down his neck, seemingly originating from the shackles. He was white and shaking, as though with fever, and looked dreadfully weak. Jaskier’s heart squeezed painfully, and he felt a hot wetness on his cheeks. Tears. He truly was weak, then. There were no tears leaking from Geralt’s eyes, even though he was clearly in agony. Jaskier could claim no right to pain.

“Curious, bard?”

Jaskier hastily tried to wipe away the evidence of his agony, looking up at Corvin, head hanging heavily. He shook it, too exhausted to fight back, to feel angry even. Only resignation was left in his heart. And guilt.

“Ah, but it’s fascinating! The effects of dimeritium on a Witcher, especially one as strong as your Geralt, have never before been documented in such detail. Look, see how he goes on despite the heaviness in his limbs? True resilience, and dogged determination. He must have been well trained.”

A little anger ripped through Jaskier then, when Corvin spoke of Geralt as though he were no more than a dog. But the flame was weak, and extinguished itself quickly when he looked back into the flat pool and saw the Witcher slip, stumbling to his knees and bracing himself achingly against the ground.

“I shall enjoy seeing how far he gets. What do you say, bard? Should we check in, see how he fares? Personally, I take great interest in hearing what he has to say.”

Jaskier shuddered but remained where he was, knees drawn up to his chest, arms wrapped protectively around them. He wanted to hear Geralt’s voice. It felt like days since the last time they had spoken, though it had probably only been a few hours. There was a part of his brain, though, that told him he didn’t deserve the comfort. That, after what he had done, there was not a part of him that deserved to hear Geralt’s voice, except if it was as a punishment to hear the pain he had put his friend through.

Corvin swept over to a strange device, a sort of horn attached to the wall. When he spoke into it, his voice reverberated through the chamber and also somewhere far below them. The water in the pool rippled, but Jaskier saw Geralt look up, stunned, and place his hands over his ears. His face was a picture of suffering, and it took him nearly a minute to uncover his ears again.

The lord then launched into a monologue, that Jaskier couldn’t bring himself to listen to. He was growing tired of the man’s melodious, cruel voice. Listlessly, he swept a hand through the dust on the floor. His heart was slow now, no longer pounding fearfully. He wondered if that was a bad thing. Geralt would say it was.

He barely noticed being manhandled to his feet. The crash of something hitting the floor somewhere behind him. It was as if in a trance that his mouth was pressed to the horn. He called out to Geralt then, because he felt that he had little choice. A bit of defiance returned to him though, at the thought that his friend was still alive, still speaking and fighting somewhere down there. He tried to sound brave. Give the Witcher one less thing to worry about in an already overwhelming sea of troubles.

He told Geralt he hadn’t been harmed, feeling guilt at the mere admission of it. Clearly, the Witcher was not alright, and it seemed brutally unfair that Jaskier should be spared pain when this whole situation had been his doing. He asked if he would meet the Witcher soon, and Geralt replied affirmatively. That gave him a little comfort. Perhaps they were better off than he had assumed. Geralt wouldn’t lie about something like that. The only reason he would have to do so would be out of kindness, and Jaskier doubted that Geralt wanted to show him any kindness now, after he had so completely and royally fucked up. It must be true, then. Geralt was on his way, would be alright. He breathed a sigh of relief as he was pulled away from the horn, shoved back to the floor, hands braced near the edge of the pool. Geralt spoke a bit more with Corvin, but Jaskier was now entirely transfixed by watching his friend. He was swaying, and looked even more sweaty and ill than he had first appeared. The black tendrils on his neck and wrists were extending, like cruel vines.

Corvin returned then, and knelt gracefully on the ground next to the pool. He murmured to himself as though in prayer, and watched with a sickening fascination as Geralt seemed to make his way towards something in the mirage. He was muttering more animatedly now, scribbling madly in his notebook as the Witcher first stumbled, then fell to his knees and seemed incapable of regaining his balance. Jaskier wanted to yell at him then, to scream at him to get up, not to give Corvin this satisfaction. But he continued on, deaf to Jaskier’s silent pleas and hundreds of miles away through the water. He continued on his hands and knees, head hanging low. A trail of black blood dribbling from his mouth, and eventually his arms trembled and collapsed underneath him, sending him sprawling onto the floor. The lord nodded with enthusiasm.

“Good, good. He made it into the final chamber. Come here, bard. Come and watch as your lover is undone.”

Jaskier was past the point where he wanted to deny that Geralt was his lover. He leaned forwards, praying and hoping that somehow the Witcher would bounce back. He had said he would see the bard soon, and Jaskier had nothing to cling onto but that thin sliver of hope that he had not been lying.

“He…he’s stronger than you think.” A small bit of defiance crept back into the bard’s tone then, pressed on by the aching desire for Geralt to live, so he could apologize to the Witcher for dragging them into this shit mess, and hold him close. Hold him and hope that his company was still something that Geralt desired. Though he doubted it would be.

“He may be strong. But he cannot outrun what awaits him now. Watch, sweet lark. Watch as your lover falls apart. When he is done, perhaps you can come crawling to me instead. I must admit, you have a certain kind of fascination. And I have never had a human before.”

Swallowing back his revulsion, Jaskier slowly raised his heavy head.

“I would fuck a thousand of your guards before I so much as considered sullying my body with yours.”

With a sharp hiss, Corvin backhanded him, and a constellation of twinkling lights sprang up across his field of vision. Wincing, Jaskier blinked them away and turned his focus back to the pool, pouring all his energy into hoping against hope that Geralt would survive this. He had to, had to live so that at least the bard could apologize to him before they were both inevitably killed. For though Jaskier felt some defiance rising in him, he knew it would not be enough to defeat the lord. He was too powerful, too heavily guarded. But Jaskier hoped that, at the very least, he could die with Geralt’s forgiveness in his heart, and perhaps, just perhaps, an inkling of fondness in the Witcher’s mind.

As soon as Geralt made it through the newly opened door, he fell down on his elbows, and then onto his stomach, unable to continue. Dazedly, he registered that the darkening of his veins had advanced significantly in the time he had been talking to Corvin and Jaskier. His arms were almost completely white now, swollen, blackened veins standing out in sharp relief against the bone-china pallor. There was a bit of blood eking through his skin as well, mixing with his fever sweat and turning all his skin a sickening greyish colour. When he reached up with a shaky hand to wipe at his mouth, it came away black with poisoned blood. There was also a strange substance leaking from his eyes, like tears. He didn’t want to consider the fact that he might be bleeding from there as well. It was an overwhelming idea. He had never been so poisoned by dimeritium, never been so ill as to experience these effects. And they were not at all pleasant. In fact, Geralt was quite sure they were killing him.

Still, he had to continue on. It was not for his own sake anymore; it had never been in the first place. All that mattered now was making it through this fucking final trial, living long enough to see Jaskier freed. He knew that Corvin would never let him go alive, not now that he was the first living being to survive all his experiments. He let go of any notions of Jaskier bringing him somewhere safe and warm. Not that the bard would have done such a thing anyways, not after Geralt had led him here and failed to protect him.

So wrapped up was he in his thoughts that Geralt barely noticed how much more difficult it was getting to breath. Though, he supposed, against all his other aches and pains, it had hardly been noticeable at first. The fever was making him shiver, exhausting him and mixing sweat and blood underneath him. But now, there could be no doubt. The air felt heavy and steam filled, the claustrophobic sort of steam that came from an overheated bath house or a bog in the midst of summer. Geralt dragged his eyes open, coughing pitifully as he tried to regain what little oxygen his aching lungs were still able to take in.

The air around him was clouded greenish purple, a haze that was bubbling up from cracks in the rock walls and floor. Geralt choked then, an uncharacteristic panic settling into his gut. He was so weak, so cold, and he had no chance of fighting something that was not even a physical entity. He tried to hold his breath, but his already weakened body couldn’t maintain it, and he was forced to draw in air as his vision darkened hazily. He tried pushing himself up on his elbows to breathe above the fog, but he found his arms shook too much to keep him upright. Besides, the room was low-ceilinged, and the steam had drifted all the way to the top of it.

Rolling onto his back, Geralt coughed then, miserably. Surely, Corvin did not intend for this fog to kill him. Not if he wanted to see what the effects of his experiment had been. Armed with this small hope, though it offered little comfort, he tried to regulate his breathing as much as possible, tried to slow his galloping heart. It got harder and harder to draw in air, and his vision grew hazy. Trying to relinquish control of himself, to relax into whatever came next, knowing there was no escape, Geralt fisted his hands in the material of his shirt, stuttering breaths coming faster with every passing moment.

He must have lost consciousness, though he did not notice it. When he awoke, he was still lying on the floor. The smoke was cleared, though, and he could finally see the room clearly. Pushing himself upright, Geralt was also relieved to find that he seemed to have regained a large portion of the strength the dimeritium had taken from him. He didn’t even feel fevered anymore.

Taking a moment to get his bearings now that his mind was a bit clearer, Geralt examined the room. A low ceiling, so low he could do no more than sit up without smacking into it. Walls hewn straight out of the rock. There were a few mineral and ore deposits glinting in the darker recesses of the cavern. With a shudder, Geralt realized they looked a bit like eyes, blinking at him out of the darkness.

He sat back for a moment, breathing, trying to regain his composure. He felt uncharacteristically rattled, paranoia seeping into his very bones. The glimmering in the dark walls put him off, and suddenly he _knew_ something was watching him. Scrambling backwards, he moved to draw his dagger, only to discover it was gone. He had had it a moment ago, with the fog. Where had it gone? Geralt’s heart was pounding viciously, so much his head hurt, and suddenly he smacked into a wall and fell to his knees. The glittering eyes were advancing upon him then, creeping out from their hollows in the rocks. An indescribable urge to run, to panic, crawled up his throat. Geralt wondered if this was how his prey felt, before he killed it. It was an unpleasant thought.

A darkness had detached itself from the cavern wall, and was gliding smoothly across the floor towards him. As it gained ground, Geralt suddenly felt a coldness strike straight to his heart. Fear and a deep pain in his head overcame him, and he slipped to the floor, clutching at his temples and groaning. The thing crept over, and bent above him. It did not have a head, but part of it cocked, a birdlike gesture.

_Beast. I will consume the heart of you._

Geralt covered his ears. Each word that issued from the thing was an assault on his senses. He felt as though his head was about to burst, and in a detached sort of way he realized there was vomit dripping down his chin. The cuffs on his wrist and neck pulsed and burned, and his ankle felt as though it were detaching from his body.

_You have killed many in your time. A true monster, made to kill with pleasure instead of simply out of nature. The wizard Stregobor said it best, I think, when he described a monster to you that way. And then you went and killed his. No more than an innocent girl, raped and tortured and deprived of her family simply because of the time of her birth. Come, let me kill you. Let me show you how she felt, when you left her lying cold on the ground._

Geralt was sick again. He was burning, every inch of him fevered and in absolute agony. The thing reached out, touched him, caressed his cheek. And then, amidst the agony, he knew no more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all SO VERY MUCH for your response to the first chapter!! It's always a little daunting to post a new work, so it means the world to me that you're enjoying it. Please feel free to pop kudos or a review here as well, even just some letters or a smiley are the best part of my week to read!


	3. Small Mercies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt has a harrowing experience. Shortly thereafter, he and Jaskier are reunited.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to thank each and every one of you from the bottom of my heart for your kind words on the previous two chapters. I am so glad that other people are enjoying following along with this story (it was supposed to be a one-shot...I no longer think I'm capable of writing one-shots). Just a small content warning for some self-hatred in this chapter, but it's very brief. There are also some allusions to sexual predation, but nothing explicit, and it's easily read without those allusions. That may change in later chapters...I haven't decided yet. 
> 
> Thank you for reading, and I hope as COVID numbers climb across the globe all you wonderful people are staying safe and healthy out there!!

Geralt was no stranger to waking up in pain. It happened far more frequently than he would have liked to admit; there was no shame in getting oneself injured in a profession as dangerous as his. However, his personal pride did still sting a little every time he was too clumsy or too slow and somehow managed to damage himself in the process. 

This time, though, there was something different about the waking. He must have been drugged. There was no other explanation for the strange grogginess that assaulted him, the dizziness and the feeling of floating in empty space, free of a mooring or any connection to the physical world. It was deeply uncomfortable, and Geralt squirmed against the floor, trying to get some sense of where he was or what had happened.

There were hard rocks under his back. They poked him sharply, and didn’t shift around the way gravel in a clearing might. Wherever he had ended up, it clearly wasn’t a camp. His hands gripped at the stones, and they were immovable under his hands.

He opened his eyes then, and winced, slamming them shut as soon as the meagre light of a cavern assaulted him. The pain in his head, which had been searing but manageable, spiked, and Geralt could scarcely keep from crying out. Tears leaked from his burning eyes, and they felt thick and bloody, as though he were crying molasses, though it was more likely some sort of poisonous ichor. Wincing, he felt around the floor, trying desperately to piece together his vague memories of what had happened. There had been smoke. Smoke, and then that terrible, glittering blackness. It had spoken to him. Of Renfri, he thought, and of his monstrous deeds. Geralt trembled, a feverish shiver wracking his frame, remembering what it had said, the truth of its words. Perhaps it had killed him, as it had said it would. This pain was certainly the afterlife he deserved, after the crimes he had committed in life.

If he was dead, then surely it didn’t matter if he opened his eyes. Purgatory would find some other way to cause him pain if he didn’t. Grimacing, he forced his lids up. The dim light was so blinding he had to roll onto his front, panting hard as he tried to brace himself on weak and shaking arms.

As he lay there, rasping and trembling and trying to keep himself from vomiting even more than he already had, there was a soft swishing sound that echoed through the chamber. Geralt froze. His heart was already racing, he realized, fear coursing through his veins even though he was too confused and exhausted to recognize it as such right away. He flopped onto his back, and his breath was knocked from his lungs the moment he landed. Staring up at the lazily swirling ceiling, he tried to gather the strength to see where the sound was coming from.

Before he could move, though, the sound drew closer, an abominable shifting like dry leaves, but with an ominous undertone that left no doubt in Geralt’s mind that he was in imminent, mortal danger. He shook, trying to brace himself, very dizzy and disoriented. A blackness floated above him, glittering like the ore in the stones, shifting and embracing him gently, like a lover’s caress. But this was no lover. There was hatred seeping from this thing like nothing Geralt had ever felt, a deep, ancient anger that surged and ebbed like a tide. A rumbling sort of laughter, more a feeling than a sound, rolled over him.

_You are weak, monster. Weak and helpless. Let me take you now, while you can still claim your weakness as an excuse. Would it not be better to die now, like this? Before life’s troubles have taken their toll on you, and you become nothing more than a husk?_

The words were seductive. Sweet and soft and gentle, rocking Geralt off to sleep. He didn’t want to listen to them, but he couldn’t help himself, and for a moment the creature above him took on another shape. A woman with red hair and blue eyes, a thin face sporting a concerned look and pinched brows as she stared down at him.

_My sweetest child. Look what you have become. The monster you have turned into, not the child I raised you to be. It’s time to come home now. Give in, and all will be forgiven._

She held out her hand. Geralt sighed, and reached up his own trembling fingers to take it. He was very tired, and he had long yearned to see his mother again. But somehow, it felt wrong. This was not how he wanted that meeting to go. Deep inside him, underneath the pleasant drowsiness and the weight of the words on his chest, he felt angry. Visenna had done him wrong. She had abandoned him, left him for dead as though he were no more than a runt. She had hurt him and left him unwanted, and Geralt knew that, though he wanted to see her again, it was _not_ because he wanted to gain her approval. Something in him, the sleepiness, snapped, and he scrambled backwards even as Visenna’s face began to shift and melt.

The person who looked down on him now did nothing to hide their anger and hurt. Renfri. Geralt supposed she would have deigned to show her face eventually, since apparently in this particular realm of purgatory he was being made to see all his ghosts. He faced her, met her eye, tried not to look away. It was harder than he had imagined it would be, even in his darkest nightmares.

_You didn’t hold me. I asked you to, as I lay dying in your arms, but you didn’t. Why couldn’t you hold me, Geralt? Were you too ashamed of what you’d done? Or did you truly feel nothing for me?_

Geralt didn’t know how to answer that question. He himself didn’t even know why he had left her in a pool of her own slowly cooling blood. It had been cruel, he thought. And wrong. But somehow, his body had simply let go, walked away. As though destiny had intervened and made sure he took the path that was meant for him. He couldn’t answer her. It felt like his mouth was trapped, frozen, barely even able to draw breath. He gasped, and she reached out and touched his cheek. Her hand was cold as ice against his face, but he couldn’t wince away. Couldn’t leave her again without warmth.

_We all make our choices. You made yours. I would make a different one, if you were dying in my arms now. Would you like to see?_

The idea of someone holding him as he died was never an image that Geralt had even entertained as plausible. He held it for a moment, turning it over and over in his slow mind the way one might inspect a fine pastry before eating it. It was a tempting thought. A beautiful one even, a poetic reversal of roles that made him feel strangely at ease. Jaskier would be proud, he thought. He must be spending too much time around the bard to be having such thoughts. Even with a mind that felt as though it was stuffed full of cotton, the bard invaded his thoughts, a constant presence that he didn’t entirely begrudge.

Renfri reached out again, and this time he felt something akin to warmth flicker through his shivering flesh. It felt good and soft, gentle in a way that Geralt had not been touched in years. He desperately wanted more, wanted Renfri to keep on caressing his cheek, wanted to feel what it would be like if she were to wrap her arm around his back and pull him into her lap. She had held him that way briefly after their tryst in the woods, and it had been wonderful, though Geralt had not been fully awake to enjoy it. Of all the ways he could choose to die, his hazy mind thought this one wouldn’t be the worst of them. Being held by someone had never been in Geralt’s expectations. But it was so warm, and he was very tired.

_That’s it. Do you remember, when I held you like this in the woods? You shivered, like no one had held you in years. Perhaps that was why you chose to leave me, when I was dying. You knew no other way. I would rather think that, than that you simply had more monsters to kill, more bogs to travel through. I knew you would never take the main road, the easiest option, if given the choice._

That was true. Though Geralt never had been given the choice. It was his lot in life to take the way less travelled, to wade his way through bogs slaying monsters so that others could stay safe. It was not his choice any more than being abandoned by Visenna had been.

He struggled against her, then, for her previously warm hands had turned to ice. The longer she held him with those deadened fingers, the more he knew that he had never had a choice. That it had not been a choice to kill Renfri, or to leave her dying and cold in the square. Her brows creased and she frowned, but suddenly her body had no more substance than smoke, and she could do nothing to hold Geralt back or to keep him from shaking her off. When he reached up to bat away her hands, they melted before his eyes like toffee on a summer afternoon, dripping slowly into blackness. Looking up, he saw that her face was melting as well, brown hair dripping into bright eyes dripping into red lips, until she was nothing more than a mass of colour. Geralt wanted to be frightened of her, but she was crying amidst her destruction; he could hear sobs coming from her shapeless void of a mouth. Then, her face and body turned to darkness, a simple cloud, which rushed towards Geralt and blanketed him from all sights and sounds, taking his consciousness as easily as a fall leaf is picked up by the wind.

He woke gasping, what could have been moments or hours later. Every inch of his body was shaking with fever, and his wrists and neck were burning and bleeding. Though he was awake, he could do nothing but stare at the ceiling, so close above his eyes, spinning dizzily. For a moment, he thought he was alone. And then a rock shifted. Too weak to push himself up or do anything to get away, Geralt turned his head in the direction of the noise, heart pounding so hard he thought it would surely burst.

There was a girl sitting on the floor, a few metres away from him. She was dressed in rags, with pale blonde hair and enormous blue eyes. Her face was smudged with dirt, so dark it looked sooty, but he could tell that underneath the grime her skin was the colour of china. She watched him blankly, as tears rolled down her face. Tiny hands twisted fearfully in her lap.

Geralt propped himself up on a shaky elbow, taking a moment to let his head hang, eyes closed, when a wave of dizziness nearly caused him to pass out. When he regained his senses, she was watching him concernedly, eyes more focused. Pearly tears collected on her dirty cheeks, making tracks in the darkness of her hollow cheeks.

“Who are you?” Geralt winced at the sound of his own voice, rasping and exhausted. He tasted blood as soon as he opened his mouth, and wondered if perhaps his throat was bleeding.

The little girl crawled forwards on her hands and knees and cocked her head like a bird. After appraising him for a few moments, she sank back, chewing on her lower lip.

“Falka. You know of me, White Wolf.”

Though she was tiny, the voice that issued from her mouth was that of a fully-grown woman, ringing with power and ambition. Geralt tried to choke back his surprise.

“I do.”

“We are not so different. Blamed for crimes we did not commit. Murders that were not our own. But as I was murdered, so will you be.”

“You…you started a rebellion. Thousands were killed on your orders.” Geralt thought his words would have been more powerful if he didn’t need to stop and cough blood so frequently.

“That is what they tell you. And what have others been told about what you did at Blaviken, Wolf? How many is it that they say you murdered? Hundreds? Thousands?”

He could not answer. The truth was he did not know. As soon as he entered a room and Blaviken was mentioned, he tuned out. He knew he had taken life, done wrong and murdered innocent people in the name of a nonexistent lesser evil. He did not need laymen and villagers to remind him of that. Having lived through it was penance enough for this lifetime.

The little girl was laughing now, the throaty giggle of an adult woman. She threw back her head and howled, an unearthly sound, and she stared at him through all of it. He resisted the urge to shrink back. Surely, a little girl could not harm him. Unnatural though she was.

“You will die, Wolf. It is only a question of when, and at whose hand. I think the answer to who brings about your end may surprise you. We can discuss it when we meet next, in death. Perhaps you will be more amenable to hearing of our similarities then.”

She blew him a kiss then, a coy gesture that sat entirely wrong with Geralt for a girl of her age, and vanished in a puff of black smoke. The smoke circled around Geralt again then, choking him until he felt sure he had heaved up a lung from the coughing. His vision flickered, and it felt like far too long a time until he finally slumped backwards, slipping into unconsciousness again.

When he woke again, Geralt knew he was well and truly alone. His ability to smell and hear had returned, though he had not truly realized that he had lost it in the first place. Wincing, he propped himself up on one side, thinking better of it when a horrendous wave of dizziness overcame him and he had to lean forwards, resting his head on his hands. They were still shackled, and all the parts of his arms that were visible were pale and streaked with black. Fever burned hot underneath his skin as well, and he couldn’t find it in himself to move any further, heaving in great breaths of steamy air as he tried his best to focus on the dirty floor. He felt sick as well, and groggy, the way one did after being exposed to drugs or poison. Geralt suspected the latter, though his reasoning was so foggy at the moment that he couldn’t be sure of much, other than that he must have had a near brush with death. His memories were too clouded to recollect how that brush might have occurred.

Geralt’s head hurt too much to be of much use to him, so for a while he simply lay on the floor, clenching his hands and trying to let the burning pain of the dimeritium cuffs draw him out of his strange dreamlike state. The wounds under the cuffs were weeping now; he could feel the sticky blood coating his hands and throat, and the texture told him it was poisoned. Though he could have guessed that from the blackened, swollen veins. Black blood was a miserable affair, and he felt bruised all over, unable even to tell where the dimeritium poisoning was causing him pain and where he had actually injured himself. Still hazy from whatever drug had made its way into his system, he could do little more than float, not asleep and yet not awake either, waiting for whatever horrors were still to come.

When the clanging finally reached his dulled, cotton-stuffed ears, it was so deafening that Geralt nearly pushed his hands up to cover his face. When he tried, though, he found they had somehow become too heavy to lift. He let out a breathy exhale, screwing his eyes shut in a misguided attempt to drown out the pain of noise after so many hours with nothing but his own thoughts. The steel-studded boots thudding against the floor and the raucous breathing of what must have been at least two men was far too much for his sensitive ears.

Then, a door swung open, and Geralt gasped and twisted on the floor, trying desperately to get away from the sound. There was a brief ringing peal of laughter, and someone came and knelt near him, disturbing the air as they came. A voice, smooth as a calm lake and soft as velvet rustled in his ear.

“I am most impressed by you, Wolf. You’ve done well indeed, and you deserve a rest. Come now with me, and I can see to your wounds myself.”

Part of Geralt’s mind, the less coherent part, jumped at this suggestion. He hurt, badly, and he desperately wanted the shackles gone so he could begin to heal. But there was a warning screaming in his mind, a part of him that desperately was trying to get his attention. Something here was wrong. That voice was too smooth and gentle, and far too familiar.

He struggled, pushing against the arm that had levered him into a semi-sitting position with all the strength he had left. Swinging blindly at something he could almost identify as a face through his blurry vision, Geralt felt the satisfying connection of flesh on flesh. Sagging back to the ground, he panted and tried to understand what was happening, why he felt as though he were in such danger.

“I wouldn’t have done that, if I were you,” the voice was low and deadly now, and Geralt could feel hot breath on his feverish cheek, “I would have healed you. But since you seem so determined to refuse my generous offer, I suppose I have no choice but to let you. You may see your bard. Let him see how clumsy and foolish you were, how badly you injured yourself completing such a simple task. Surely, he’ll never want to bed you again after such a pathetic display.”

There was another cruel bark of laughter, and Geralt winced as his head bounced against the rock floor and stars burst in front of his eyes. There were a few more deafening rustles of movement, and then he was hauled upright, arms slung over the hard metal shoulders of two armoured men. He slumped between them, utterly spent, head hanging and boots dragging on the floor. The dimeritium collar dug into his chin where it banged against his neck, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. The damned metal was already weakening him; surely it wouldn’t happen any faster now. After all, he had survived. Somewhere in the foggy recesses of his mind, Geralt remembered that was important. Important for Jaskier. And as long as he gave the bard a chance to get himself out of this mess, that was all that mattered.

It didn’t take long before even hanging weakly between the two guards felt like hell incarnate on Geralt’s overwrought muscles. His arms were burning, poisoned with his blackened blood, and he could feel coughing spasms working their way through his body. It was a relief when he finally found himself being dumped on another stone floor, the pain of falling barely registering anymore. Someone with the same gentle footsteps as the person who had been speaking to him earlier knelt down, and Geralt felt his shackles shift, and then a click as they were unlocked. He let go a great breath as they were yanked roughly from his skin, followed quickly by a wince and a groan as all his chaos suddenly came rushing back to him in one great burst; a set of sluice gates being opening to create a torrential river. The collar was unlocked and removed as well, and then a set of what must have been regular iron shackles were slid over his wrists, rubbing the already raw flesh and bruising hundreds of sensitive nerve endings. Geralt didn’t want to shy away, didn’t want to show how much it hurt, but he couldn’t help a wince as the new shackles were locked and his hands were secured by a looping chain in front of him. Whoever had set him down had at least had the mercy to prop him up against the wall, and he looked up blearily to see the young guard from earlier, the one who stank of fear. Geralt couldn’t smell it now, but that was probably more due to his own impediments than any change in the man’s demeanour. He still looked terrified, shoulders heaving under his quick, airy breaths.

“C-Corvin, he said not-not to speak to you,” the man, who Geralt now realized was little more than a boy, stuttered, “But…I want to give you this. It’s not right…w-what he did to you.”

The boy withdrew a small vial from his tunic, and pressed into Geralt’s numb hands. The Witcher looked up at him, exhausted and confused and unsure.

“F-for the pain. In your wrists and neck. It won’t help much, but it’s a start. I’ve used it on my own burns, in the past.”

Geralt was too confused and bleary to do much more than nod, wincing as the gesture jostled his already spinning head. The boy placed a delicate, small hand on his shoulder and then retreated, barring the door behind him. Too exhausted to reflect much further on the whole situation, Geralt leaned his head back against the wall, shivering miserably from fever and wishing desperately for a blanket, or even his leather coat. It would be days yet before he recovered from such serious blood poisoning, assuming Corvin didn’t shackle him with the dimeritium again. And he had no idea what other wounds he had acquired, lurking beneath the surface of the dimeritium-induced haze. Mind and body too shattered to consider the situation much further, Geralt clumsily wrapped his aching arms around himself, wincing as the chains rattled along the floor, and fell into a fitful rest.

Jaskier couldn’t say afterward how long he waited, kneeling in front of the pool on the floor of Corvin’s laboratory, watching as Geralt twitched and groaned under the influence of some strange drug. It was horrific, seeing the Witcher in so much pain and unable to do anything about it, and Jaskier forgot entirely about the ache in his knees from sitting on the ground, and the grinding fear in his heart over what might be done to them next. He could only watch as Geralt spasmed and whimpered, occasionally calling out for people or mumbling words so garbled they made no sense, even to the bard’s sensitive ears. He realized there were tears streaming down his face, hot and shameful and a constant reminder of his father’s words, that he was weaker than a woman and could never be considered the man of the house or of his family. He was reminded that Geralt’s suffering was his fault. He could have stopped all of this, if only he hadn’t begged to stay at an inn, because he was too weak to sleep outside in the cold. He hated himself in that moment. Utterly, completely. He knew that even if by some miracle they managed to escape, that hatred would not simply disappear. Bearing the responsibility for such suffering was too overwhelming a burden to even consider.

He must have lost time, fallen asleep on his knees, because when he was next jolted from his reverie it was because Corvin had stood and set his notebook to the side. He looked elated, joyous even; his cheeks were flushed red and a large, cruel smile was plastered across his face. Jaskier hated him for it.

“He has done the unthinkable, little lark! Come, why aren’t you more joyous? No one here expected him to live, and yet he has!”

Jaskier’s heart jumped a little when he heard that Geralt had lived through whatever horror it was that Corvin had subjected him to, but he couldn’t bring himself to feel any joy at the thought. Not when Geralt had looked so weak and broken down, and not while he was still in danger of having that happen again. He slumped weakly with his elbows braced on his knees, more out of relief than anything.

“Come with me. You can see him, if you wish.”

In saying this, Corvin confirmed what Jaskier had guessed all along. He would not be freed. Geralt had survived, and still he was being dragged about this keep like a dog. Though, in Jaskier’s experience with men as cruel as Corvin, once they had you in their clutches, they were slow and unwilling, sometimes even unable, to retract their claws from your flesh. He shuddered at the memories and pushed himself numbly to his feet, staring straight ahead. He wondered where in the keep he would finally meet his end. Hopefully somewhere dark and small, with Geralt safely on his way after having made some daring escape attempt. That would be what was best for all of them. Corvin beckoned, still grinning, and Jaskier fell into step after him, feeling nothing as they travelled down corridors and halls lit only by the dim light of guttering torches. The place smelled damp and sorrowful, with an undertone of something bitter that Jaskier remembered from holding vigil at his dying grandmother’s bedside. The smell of death and decay, rot and ruin, of memories and a life about to be snuffed out like a candle that had burnt too low. He was too numb to feel fear at the scent, but it left him with the unpleasant sensation that he was being watched from beyond the vale, by those who had died here before.

Eventually, they came to a divergence in the murky tunnels, where Jaskier was instructed by Corvin to wait. He was left with an escort of three guards, far too many to even consider taking on by himself with no weapon, and so he slumped against the wall and listened to the monotonous tone of water dripping from the ceiling onto the floor, and the soft rasping of the guards’ breath. It was dull, and time had no meaning down here, so far from the light. After a while, Jaskier slumped down against the wall and felt the dampness of the floor soak into his breeches. His breath misted in front of his face, and he shivered as the air grew colder. It must be drawing near to evening.

The sound of Corvin’s returning footsteps were soft on the stones, only the dull flapping of his soft boots in the water betraying he was returning at all. He crouched down next to the bard, wrapping a hot hand around his upper arm and breathing far too close to the side of his face.

“You may accompany me.”

Jaskier heaved himself to his feet and followed along behind the lord until they arrived at a barred door, set into the stone wall. It was miserably and damp; the puddles only increased in this part of the keep. The bard peered between the bars, but could make nothing out until the door opened with a squeaking lurch and he was shoved so forcefully inside that he crashed to his knees, wincing as they smarted on the sharp stones. Keys rattled in the lock behind him, and he spun to see Corvin smiling softly at him through the bars.

“Please, make yourself comfortable,” he gestured as though he were showing Jaskier a grand suite, “This is to be your home, after all.”

With that, he turned in a swirl of dark silk robes and padded off gently, though he left a torch in the bracket on the outside wall. Jaskier blinked, feeling his heart simultaneously pounding in panic and sinking into the deepest reaches of his chest. There was to be no escape for him. Though he had known it already, hearing it said with such conviction made his whole body clench up, made him want to crawl into the furthest reaches of this cell and die before Corvin could do anything to him. The only reason he could think of to keep going was Geralt, who was supposedly somewhere in this cell, suffering. Jaskier owed it to him to help in every way he could, and though his hopes of an escape were dwindling with every second, the least he could do was help the Witcher with his wounds and make him comfortable. He heaved himself to his knees and called in a tremulous voice.

“Geralt? Are you in here?”

There was nothing. Only the maddening drip of water and the strange echoes that always seemed to find their way into caverns. Jaskier wanted to yell. He smacked at the floor weakly in frustration and struggled to his feet, feeling his way along the walls. The light of the torch was sufficient to illuminate the first few metres of the cell, but after that it sank into darkness. The bard operated on his senses alone as he groped his way further back.

When he finally did come across the Witcher, he nearly tripped and brained himself over the man’s legs. He had been foolishly feeling along the walls at standing height, and as soon as he was able to make out Geralt’s slumped form, he knew that had been an idiotic choice. After all he had been through, it would have been miraculous to find him standing. Especially since he had not answered the bard’s call. Jaskier shook himself. Clearly, his mind was foggy with guilt and fear. If he wanted to do anything for Geralt, he needed to start thinking clearly again.

Crouching down next to the man, Jaskier placed two trembling fingers on his neck, gleaning a weak pulse. It was fluttering, though, and Geralt’s veins felt strangely enlarged when he pressed against them. Though it was very dark, they stood out in stark relief against his neck in the same way they would after he took Cat or Black Blood. Jaskier cursed. Had Corvin given him potions, or something more deadly? Geralt was very cagey about what he drank before taking a contract, and as such the bard had little knowledge of it. Frustrated, he realized he would have to wait for the Witcher to awaken before he was able to do anything.

There were, however, some things that he could see to even though Geralt was unconscious. The most obvious of his wounds were his neck and wrists, both of which were rubbed raw and oozing very thick, dark blood. Jaskier winced when he ran his fingers across the injuries, feeling underneath the manacles wrapped around Geralt’s wrists to get a better sense of how badly damaged they were. The Witcher shifted a bit at the contact, but did not wake.

“I’m going to wrap these for you, alright?” Jaskier spoke mostly to comfort himself, and hoped that the guilt pounding in his chest was not too evident in his words. Every drop of blood Geralt had spilled today was on his shoulders, and his alone.

Tearing off a few strips from the bottom of his tunic, the bard slipped them between the manacles and Geralt’s raw wrists. He wrapped them around the torn flesh ever so gently, wincing at the heat he felt rolling off the Witcher in waves so intense that Jaskier could feel it several inches away. As he turned Geralt’s right hand to get a better view of the ruined wrists, something slipped from his lax fingers and bounced brightly on the floor. Jaskier picked it up and turned it gently round in his own fingers, observing. He popped the cork and smelled it, and nearly shouted with relief.

“I don’t know where you got this, but thank the Gods you did,” he sighed, hastily unwrapping the strips of tunic from Geralt’s wrists again and smearing some of the salve on his fingers, “Someone in this wretched place must have an ounce of mercy.”

It was when he was rubbing the fresh, minty smelling salve on Geralt’s wrists and neck that the man finally stirred. Just a shifting in his dark eyebrows at first, a soft clenching of his fists. Jaskier stopped immediately, wiping his fingers on his pants. They tingled with the aftertaste of eucalyptus and peppermint, an expensive combination, particularly in this part of the world. Whoever had helped Geralt, they were clearly someone of influence.

“Geralt? Are you awake?”

In response, the Witcher winced and clenched his fists, trying to pull his hands towards himself and failing, as though he was weighed down by the iron shackles. He sank back against the rough rock wall, putting as much distance between himself and the bard as possible. Jaskier’s heart sank, all hopes of earning Geralt’s forgiveness dashed by that single gesture.

“Listen,” he tried to be gentle, and to conceal the tremor of tears that shadowed his words, “I know you must hate me. And you have every right to. But I want to help, I want to fix what happened. And that starts by cleaning you up a bit and getting you more comfortable. Can I do that, please? It’s alright if you say no. I-I’ll understand.”

Geralt’s brow creased in confusion then, and he pulled his eyes open with what looked like a herculean effort.

“…Jaskier? Fuck…you-you’re not real.” His teeth were chattering, though the cell was not particularly cold.

“I am. Real, I mean. Though I don’t know why you’d think I wasn’t.”

“L-let me…touch you?”

That was a strange request, and one that sent Jaskier’s heart spiralling. He felt so confused. One moment, Geralt was shrinking away from him in fear, and the next he wanted to touch him? He wondered if perhaps the Witcher had been poisoned, or if perhaps this was some sick game designed to hurt him, after all the hurt he had put Geralt through. The Witcher hadn’t struck him as the vindictive type, but they hadn’t been travelling together more than a few months. Jaskier was sure there were plenty of parts of him that were still a mystery. In any case, he deserved whatever ire Geralt directed at him, after what he had done. He held out a trembling hand and tried to squash down his fear.

Geralt tried to raise his hand to touch the bard’s, but he shook after mere seconds of it being off the ground, and Jaskier took mercy and laid his own hand gently on top of the Witcher’s. He looked shocked when their hands touched, and let out something between a sigh of relief and a strangled cry. His whole arm shook, and Jaskier gently closed his fingers around it in order to steady him a bit. It was heartrending to behold.

“Just me, see? Now, is it alright if I tend to some your wounds? Just to make you more comfortable, I promise. I’ll do my best not to hurt you…more than I already have.”

Geralt’s eyebrows creased, and Jaskier’s heart sank again. He looked frustrated, angered even. Though it was no better than the bard had expected. But the Witcher nodded, slowly and tiredly.

“My-my wrists. And…I’ve a fever.”

“I’d gathered as much. You’re burning up.”

Geralt’s eyes cast down then, and he looked almost ashamed, though it could have been simply his sickly pallor casting shadows across his face. Now that Jaskier’s eyes had adjusted to the darkness, he saw that there were still black, ridged veins prominent across the Witcher’s face, arms and chest.

“Why…what happened to your arms? And your neck? Did they poison you?”

Geralt shook his head.

“Dimeritium. C-caused the fever, too.”

Jaskier could remember studying the effect of dimeritium on magic users in one of his natural history courses at Oxenfurt. Catastrophic damage, that was what his professor had said. Poisoning of the blood, and eventually fever and delirium, and then the complete shutdown of all the organs. He gulped, overcome with the heat of guilt and shame.

“This is iron,” Jaskier fingered the metal shackle, careful not to jostle Geralt’s mangled wrists, “Is there any other dimeritium on you? Anything I can get off to help you feel a bit more yourself again?”

The Witcher shook his head, looking exhausted.

“No. I…I just need time. To heal. The poisoning…it should go away. S-so long as he doesn’t…do it again.”

Sighing, Jaskier set about applying the last of the salve and wrapping Geralt’s wrists again, doing his best to create a layer between the skin and the shackles. Most of the top layer of skin was gone from the rubbing of the metal against it, and in some places Jaskier could even see bone. His blood boiled with self-hatred, and tears poured down his face. He hoped Geralt couldn’t see them in the dark. It would only make him look weaker than he already did.

When he was finished with Geralt’s wrists, he moved on to putting some salve and makeshift bandages around the Witcher’s neck. Geralt watched him from under hooded lids, looking very tired and yet for some reason unable to rest. Eventually, he took a deep breath, shuddering under the chill of his fever and sounding raspy, as though his lungs had filled with fluid.

“Jaskier?” His voice cracked on the second syllable, making him sound broken and lost, almost afraid. The thought of Geralt being afraid of anything unsettled the bard more than he liked to admit. He wiped away his tears and turned to face him.

“Yes?”

“W-what happened here,” Geralt’s teeth were well and truly chattering now, his whole body trembling and shrouded in some icy storm which only he could feel, “I-it was my fault. And…well…I would understand if…if you no longer w-wanted to travel with me.”

The last part all came out in a rush, and Jaskier did a double take. He stared, gaping, for a moment, and had to replay the words several times in his mind to make sure he hadn’t simply misheard. His mouth dropped open, and Geralt caught his eye, though he quickly shifted his gaze away. He was shaking so badly now, and Jaskier wanted nothing more than to gather the Witcher up in his arms. Suddenly he was overcome by the inexplicable urge to start laughing. He clasped Geralt’s hand, very tightly, between his own.

“You stupid man,” Jaskier whispered thickly, something between a smile and a grimace painted on his face, “Oh Gods, you idiot.”

Geralt looked down at their intertwined hands as though he expected, at any second, for Jaskier to simply rip away from him, denounce him, and begin banging on the cell door and hollering for someone to free him. Jaskier’s heart nearly broke at the thought, adding to the already overwhelming onslaught of emotions he was experiencing.

“I-it was my fault. All of it! I was the one who wanted so badly to stop in this town, because I’m so damn weak I can’t even make it a few months in the wild without wanting to sleep in a warm bed. I said all those horrible things to you on the road, which I didn’t mean, and then you must have simply wanted to drop me somewhere and be rid of me. And what’s more, I’m the reason you didn’t simply fight your way out of here in the first place. If I wasn’t too much of a damned idiot to keep that man from pressing a blade to my throat, if I hadn’t been with you in the first place, you’d be well on your way by now. Gods, Geralt, I would understand if you never wanted to see my face again. I would understand if you wanted to take that bloody great sword of yours and flay me alive. Men have done more for less, after all.”

His exposition left Jaskier panting a bit, and some combination of sweat and tears pouring off his face. Geralt looked away, and he didn’t look up for several moments. His hand stayed in between Jaskier’s, but the bard couldn’t tell whether that was because he was simply too weak and tired to move it. Then, finally, slowly, he moved. Looked up and caught Jaskier’s eye. His own eyes were exhausted, miserable, but there was a light there that had been missing before, like he finally had hope that things might work out.

“You…fuck. That’s not how…you should feel. N-not your fault. It’s my job…t-to protect you. And I failed. A-as for your words…earlier. I know. They were not meant harmfully.”

Jaskier squeezed Geralt’s hand in his own, ever so gently, mindful of the painful shackles still winding around his wrists. He felt weak with relief, heart thumping heavily in his chest, and a weight that he hadn’t even known he was carrying lifted from his shoulders. What a simple misunderstanding, to have caused so much pain. Jaskier couldn’t remember the last time he had felt agony so keenly. His mind dwelled on this for a moment, wondering what it was about Geralt that made him feel so strongly, so completely. But he brushed it aside, dismissing it as a question for another time. Preferably when they were safe, if they ever got out of here alive.

“You have my forgiveness. Even though there’s nothing to forgive.”

“A-and you have mine. For what…it’s worth.”

Geralt’s head slumped to the side, a weak exhale escaping his lips. Jaskier was there in a moment, catching him, keeping him from slumping completely to the side. Intercepted in his downward spiral, the Witcher looked up, surprised, and Jaskier immediately raised a hand in surrender.

“Only if you want. I…I don’t know what they did to you down there, and I know you don’t like being touched anyways. I just thought it might help.”

Geralt dropped his head again, onto the bard’s shoulder. He was trembling, shivering so violently that Jaskier could hear his teeth chattering even though they were gritted tightly together. Cautiously, Jaskier wrapped his arms around Geralt, and when he was not met with resistance, pulled him close.

“This is alright?”

“Mmm…warm.”

Jaskier took that as a good enough answer for the time being; Gods knew how long they had been trapped in this place, and Geralt had had a very trying time. The veins on his arms were beginning to recede, and the swelling was going down, but it was clear that his blood was still very much poisoned, and the fever was raging under his flesh. He seemed miserable, and Jaskier remembered a conversation they had had several months ago, when they had first begun travelling together.

_“Sweet Freya, you call that a scratch? I’m surprised you’ve lived as long as you have, gallivanting about the countryside in such a state and not even taking the time to clean your wounds.”_

_Jaskier gesticulated wildly as he said it, waving his arms about to demonstrate how truly abominable the situation was. Geralt looked up, an almost absentminded look on his face as he pulled sutures tight in his own bloody flesh._

_“It barely got me. I’ll be healed tomorrow.”_

_“Not if it gets enflamed, you won’t. Do you even know how to properly clean a wound?”_

_“Yes.”_

_“Well, come here all the same. I have a friend, Shani, who was in medical school in Oxenfurt. She taught me a few things about how to stave off infection after I got myself in one too many a barfight. I like to think that I’m decently skilled at sutures. It’s better than you binding your own skin together.”_

_He shuddered as he said it, trying to imagine how such a horrifying procedure would feel. In the end, he concluded that some things were best left to the imagination. Geralt carefully set down the needle and sized him up with those perceptive cat’s eyes as he wrapped a bandage around his wounded arm._

_“I’ve finished them myself.”_

_“Well, next time then? No matter how much I think you might dislike to admit it, there will come a time when you’re not able to care for yourself. And…well, I may just be a lowly bard, but I like to think that you know you can rely on me, when that time comes. And that I’ll do everything I can for you.”_

_“Hmm.”_

_The noise sounded noncommittal, but Geralt caught Jaskier’s eye as he spoke, and there was something there which the bard had not seen before. Not that they had made much eye contact since they began travelling together; the Witcher was averse to all forms of contact, it seemed. But there was a bit of trust there now, a slight glimmer that suggested perhaps Geralt was beginning to see Jaskier as more than just a nuisance. He settled back into the tree and watched as Geralt extinguished the fire with a burst of Igni, a slight shard of hope blooming in his chest that perhaps he could make this work._

Now, as Geralt nestled his overheated brow into Jaskier’s forehead, the bard couldn’t help but think that this wasn’t exactly what he had had in mind when he had made the offer. He was a romantic at heart, with an overactive imagination. When he had pictured helping Geralt in the aftermath of an injury, he had seen himself sweeping in, taking away all of his friend’s pain and making him instantly comfortable and alright again. He wished so badly, in this moment, that that had been how it had occurred. More likely than not, they would both meet their deaths within this keep, as little as Jaskier liked to consider such a prospect. He only wished he could make good on his own imaginations, wherein he was able to solve everything.

They stayed like that for some time, until eventually Geralt must have fallen into an uneasy sleep. He twitched occasionally, pain etched far too clearly in the lines of his forehead and in his clenched fists. Jaskier watched him for a time, but eventually he began to drift as well. It had been such a long time since he had slept well; two days at least since they had entered the keep, and he had been struggling to sleep while they were on the road. Against his better judgement, he finally gave in to the constant dipping of his head, the heaviness of his lids, and fell asleep with his brow rested against Geralt’s silver hair.

Geralt awoke feeling groggy, but decidedly better than when he had finally slipped off into a fevered sleep. He blinked a few times, trying to get his bearings, and wondering why the ground seemed to be lifting up and down under his head. It was also very warm; an external heat warming his own fever-chilled skin. Sighing, he closed his eyes again. It had been a long time since he had felt warm and safe while so obviously ill, and in his exhausted state he wasn’t inclined to question it.

This changed, however, when he tried to stretch, and pain shuddered through his whole body, an icy thing that radiated from his arms and neck, and a bit from his ankle as well. He was all over cold and the grogginess hadn’t dissipated, bringing with it a hellish headache that could only be a side effect of having been drugged. Geralt clamped his jaw shut, trying to suppress a groan of pain, and found that even his facial muscles ached. He shuddered, unsure and no longer warm and comfortable. He had very little memory of what had happened. His hands clenched, and he felt cold metal wrapped around his wrists, under a thick layer of what felt like fabric.

Whatever Geralt was resting on moved then, groaning with a vibration that he felt more than heard. He tried to move backwards, away from whatever he seemed to have unwittingly passed out on, but his wrists were too heavy. It was a disarming sensation, being pinned here, against someone he could not identify. Disarming and frightening.

“Mmm…get off me.” A voice grumbled in the dark, and immediately Geralt recognized it and relaxed, at least he tried to before he was violently shoved off Jaskier and ended up smacking his head against the stone wall behind them. He bit back a groan as stars burst before his eyes and he tried to regain his already shaky balance.

“Ah, fuck, Geralt,” Jaskier jolted fully awake with a start, and in the gloom his eyes were bright with guilt, “I’m so sorry, I forgot where we were for a moment.”

Gingerly, Geralt moved to lean with his back against the wall. His arms were shaking, and he could feel a lump beginning to grow on the back of his skull, but there was no point in adding to the bard’s already exceptionally guilty expression and conscience. He allowed Jaskier to help him lean more upright, and didn’t protest when his head was guided to lean against the other man’s shoulder. It felt strange, to accept such intimacy, but not entirely wrong. Something kept him from pulling away, and Geralt realized he couldn’t remember the last time he had accepted such an intimate touch that hadn’t been well paid for with copper.

After a moment of silence that felt far too comfortable considering their current predicament, Jaskier took in a wobbly breath and spoke.

“How are you feeling? Any change in your blood from yesterday?”

Mind still very foggy, Geralt wondered why Jaskier was so fixated on his blood. Of all his injuries, it was the only one that couldn’t be fixed with bandages and healing potions and a good amount of rest. Only time could heal it, and there was nothing Jaskier could do to speed that along. It was a strange, illogical thing to worry about. Either he would die, or he wouldn’t.

The bard jostled him a bit then, presumably to see if he was still awake, and Geralt realized he had better give an answer.

“Groggy. Tired. Feverish. Blood’s the same. Swelling’s going down a bit, though.”

Geralt wondered if that had been a bit too honest. But the bard simply rubbed a warm hand up and down his arm in a gesture that felt far too intimate, humming with satisfaction when he felt that the blood vessels were no longer as ridged and swollen as they had been.

“Seems you’re right. Is there anything I can do…to ease it a bit?”

There it was again, that tint of blue that had lurked in all Jaskier’s words since they had first arrived in this thrice-damned place. It had not disappeared since their conversation earlier. Geralt wondered why the man was still so full of blame, or guilt, or whatever it was that was causing him such difficulty. Putting a name to such feelings had never been the Witcher’s strong suit, and confused and tired as he was, he had even less of a chance of being successful at it now.

“Cold.” The words were gritted out between clenched teeth. Jaskier sighed, a heavy sound, and shifted a bit, opening his arms.

“Come here. If you want.”

“You…that’s alright?”

“Of course. Why wouldn’t it be?”

Geralt gestured at himself with a shaky hand, both unwilling and unable to explain the fear and revulsion that most humans would have felt even to be forced to touch him, the Butcher of Blaviken. Jaskier appraised him for a moment.

“Someday, we’ll have that conversation. If we make it out of here alive, that is. For the time being, trust that I am not disgusted by you. If I were, I never would have chosen to travel with you in the first place. You may be frightening with a blade, but I know you would never hurt or kill a human, and even some monsters, unless you had no other choice. And right now, you’re hurting and ill, and it’s mostly my fault, no matter what you say. So, come here and let me hold you and ease your pain.”

Such a speech was a bit too much for Geralt’s groggy mind to process at the moment, but Jaskier was very warm and he was trembling. A small, weak part of his brain that the fever had made noisier than usual was telling him that there was something more, a different reason altogether that he wanted to be close to the bard. He tried his best to ignore it, and his thoughts were so skewed, and he was so very hot and uncomfortable that it was not a difficult task. His blood felt alive within his veins, squirming about like an eel, hot with fever. There was an ever-present ache that pulsed through his wrists and neck, and now that he was a bit more coherent, he was fairly sure he had sprained his ankle as well.

“Come here, darling. You’re tired and sick. Let me hold you so you can get some rest.”

Normally, Geralt would have bristled at those words. Patronizing and untrue as they were. He could never earn such fond names, never be dear to anyone in that way, especially not a bard who was little more than a boy and all too human. But Jaskier was right. He was tired and ill, and there was fever rocking through his veins and turning his limbs to jelly. Barely strong enough to brace himself on his elbows, he felt Jaskier gather him up, pull him so he was nearly sitting in the bard’s lap. He shuddered at the warmth, sighing contentedly. Absentmindedly, he fiddled with the bits of fabric wrapped around his mangled, burnt wrists, and realized Jaskier must have tended to them and rubbed the salve on them while he was unconscious. A bit of unfamiliar warmth sparked in Geralt’s chest. He rested his head on the bard’s shoulder, feeling the sharp relief of his collarbone. The man was thinner than he looked.

“That’s better, yes? A little warmer?”

“Mhmm.” Geralt was past caring how weak and pathetic he sounded. He needed to sleep off the blood poisoning before he would even be able to consider such things again.

“Good. Just rest for a bit, while we have some peace. I don’t think Corvin will leave us alone for very long. And do give me a poke if you need anything, alright? We’ll need to reapply that salve soon.”

The saddened tint in Jaskier’s words was still there. _Why so guilty, bard?_ The question was on the tip of Geralt’s tongue. _Why so sad? None of this was your doing._ But his mouth was filled with cotton, and his teeth were chattering hard now, the world closing in around him. Lacking the strength to say what he needed, the Witcher fell into a restless, fevered sleep as the poison slipped from his veins, eking out through his flesh.


	4. Two Meetings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier does his best to help Geralt, but Corvin is also doing his best to undo all their hard work. A mysterious benefactor sends an envoy, and provides fresh hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brief CW for mentions of sexual assault and sex work (very, very brief).
> 
> Thank you all so very much for all your kind words on the last chapter! It's the best part of my day to read all the comments after I post a new bit, so just know that it all means the world to me. I hope you guys all continue to enjoy the story; we're getting closer to a resolution with every chapter, although I'm as much along for the ride as you guys are.
> 
> Enjoy!

Once Geralt’s battered body finally relaxed into what seemed to be a halfway restful sleep, Jaskier finally allowed himself to let out a shuddering sigh. It was of the particular ilk that trembled with unshed tears, which he was trying very hard to keep within his eyes. He couldn’t even identify what it was that was causing him such emotional pain. Geralt didn’t blame him for what happened here. In fact, the man seemed to be placing any and all guilt for their current predicament squarely on his own shoulders. But there was still something, some words left unspoken or some feeling left unexamined, that left Jaskier feeling shaken and strange. Not to mention the fact that his father’s disapproval was still hanging like a black cloud over his head. He felt he had done nothing in the last several days but prove his father right. He was weak. Shameful. A disappointment both to himself and to his family name.

He clenched his fists a few times, letting his nails dig into the flesh of his palms. The pain grounded him, chased away the intrusive thoughts, as much as he wished he didn’t need to resort to such methods to bring him back to the present. Wiping the blood out of the creases of his hands, he grimaced.

“Pull yourself together,” he muttered under his breath, another nervous habit which he had been unable to shed once he had left Lettenhove, “You’re not even wounded. Your friend is lying in your lap, shaking with fever and pain, and you’re spending all your time feeling sorry for yourself. It’s shameful.”

The bad thoughts receded, though Jaskier knew it was only temporary. Permanent removal of his anxieties and self-doubt was been something he had been chasing his entire life. As yet, he had not found a solution. But right now, Geralt needed his attention far more, and that was a good enough deterrent to rid his mind of its excesses. 

His eyes had adjusted fairly well to the darkness by now, and he was able to make out the darkened veins that were still prominent against Geralt’s bone-pale skin. The man had a fair complexion regularly, but it seemed to have eked into the realms of deathliness over the past several hours. It was as though the blood poisoning was sucking the very warmth from his flesh, the very substance that kept his heart beating betraying him. It was miserable to watch, especially when Jaskier knew there was nothing he could do but hold Geralt through the fever, and hope he was strong enough to recover on his own. 

The other wounds, though, were more within Jaskier’s scope. His wrists were seeping black liquid, as was his neck. Geralt had also winced a bit, during his brief moments of wakefulness, whenever he had shifted his left ankle. The bard determined to start there; broken and sprained bones were something he was more than familiar with. He eased off his jacket and used it to cover the Witcher’s shivering frame. He felt guilty, leaving Geralt leaned up against the wall with no one there to hold him, especially after he had seemed so glad to curl up into the bard’s warmth. But, he justified to himself, wounds took precedence, especially since Geralt was fevered. He was burning up, no matter how he claimed to be cold. Surely, more warmth would not help the illness beneath his flesh to break.

“Now, let’s see what we can do for that ankle, yes?”

As gently as he could, Jaskier eased off Geralt’s leather boot. He was glad it was of the sort that had buckles in the back that loosened it, otherwise it would have been impossible to pull it off without causing the Witcher significant pain. As it was, though, he was able to undo the buckles fairly easily and slide off the mucky object, tossing it to the side with no small amount of disgust. If they ever made it out of here, he promised himself he would buy Geralt a new pair of boots. By way of compensation for getting them into this mess in the first place. 

Once he had pulled away the wool wraps around Geralt’s foot, he winced, twisting his neck sideways with second-hand discomfort. The Witcher’s foot was streaked black and blue, and his ankle was swollen to the approximate size and shape of one of the potatoes that had used to grow in the kitchen gardens of Lettenhove when Jaskier was a little boy. 

“Oh, Geralt,” he sighed, wondering how he had possibly been able to complete Corvin’s tests with his ankle in such a state, “Why didn’t you tell me? We could have done something for this sooner, you know.”

Geralt didn’t respond, but Jaskier hadn’t expected him to. Sighing, he turned back to the mangled appendage and ripped a bit more off his already ruined shirt. It had once been of a fine weave, one of the few shirts he had brought with him from Lettenhove. As such, though, it was associated with enough bad memories to last Jaskier a lifetime. He was more than happy to sacrifice it if it would dull his friend’s pain.

When he had finished wrapping the appendage in a figure eight, the way the healing masters of his youth had taught him, Jaskier sat back. He wiped a bit of sweat off his brow, though the cell was cold and damp. 

“Well, that’s about as much as I can do,” he sighed, feeling useless that there wasn’t more he was able to accomplish, “This damned place is too desolate to help you much more. I suppose I’d better figure out a way to get us out of here before they do anything more to you.”

Geralt shifted at that, and cracked an amber iris. His brows drew together, and he pushed himself up on arms that seemed a bit less shaky. His eyes were clearer too, no longer clouded with fever and exhaustion.

“Geralt! I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you. Here, if you’re too cold you can rest against me again…”

Jaskier trailed off when Geralt waved a hand through the air, cutting him off. The bard was surprised. Merely a few hours ago, he had been unable to even lift his arms under the weight of the shackles.

“I’m fine, bard.”

“Really? Because less than an hour ago, you were shivering so hard I had to hold you in my lap, and your blood was black and the consistency of molasses. You know, there’s no shame in admitting you’re not completely back to normal again after going through something like that.”

Geralt shrugged and leaned back against the wall. He still looked tired, and his neck was red and irritated, but it no longer appeared to be leaking extraordinary amounts of black ichor. Neither were his wrists, and the swelling in his veins had gone down enough that it was hardly visible, even against the ghastly pallor of his skin.

“Just needed to rest. I told you I would be fine soon enough.”

“Forgive me for not taking what you said while you were trembling and half out of your mind with fever at face value. Speaking of which…”

Jaskier leaned forward and placed a hand on Geralt’s forehead. The Witcher didn’t flinch away, but held the bard’s gaze steadily.

“You’re still very warm, Geralt.”

“Residual. It should go down soon. Witcher metabolism.”

“Well, it’s good to see you’re back to your usual verbose ways, but I’m not sure it would be wise for you to be up and about quite yet. You’re still fevered, and you’ve some very nasty cuts and an ankle that’s twice its normal size. So, might I be so bold as to recommend you try to get some rest for a bit yet?”

Jaskier knew the levity in his words was forced, but he hoped Geralt wouldn’t notice. The man was hopeless when it came to identifying such things, and he didn’t particularly feel like going down that line of questioning at the moment. It was a conversation for a less desperate time. 

Geralt braced himself against the wall and tested his weight on his bad ankle, wincing as he did so. He sank back to the floor with a tired sigh.

“Did you manage to find anything out, while I was…resting?”

“No. Just tended to your wounds, for the most part. Really, Geralt, this is ridiculous.”

This last part was said with a tone of extreme exasperation as Geralt once again tried to get himself to his feet, eyes going a bit crossed as he lost his balance and his back smacked against the damp wall. Jaskier was at his side in an instant, slotting himself under the taller man’s shoulder, supporting him. One of Geralt’s hands found a crevice in the rock, and he managed to support the rest of his weight that way.

“What are you doing? You can’t even keep yourself upright.”

“We need to find a way out of here,” Geralt panted, “And my senses make me the most obvious choice for the task, injuries or not. There’s nothing that can’t be seen to once we get out of here.”

“What makes you think that there even is a way out of here? Corvin certainly doesn’t seem to want to let you leave anytime soon.”

“There’s always…some way.”

Geralt shoved himself off the wall with this statement, and Jaskier, unprepared for this sudden lurch forwards, lost his grip on the Witcher’s shoulder. Without the support, Geralt stumbled heavily, catching himself on his right hand when he pitched towards the floor. The chains around his wrists must have been paining him more than he had cared to let on, though, because his wrist buckled underneath the sudden onslaught of weight. Jaskier watched helplessly as Geralt groaned and collapsed to his knees, hurrying forwards but feeling that he couldn’t possibly move fast enough.

“Perhaps we should wait, yes?” Jaskier dropped to his knees at the Witcher’s side, helping him back up and easing him onto his back.

“Fuck.”

“I concur completely. Unfortunately, there’s not much to be done at the moment. Unless you’re planning on somehow transferring your miraculous Witcher senses over to me?”

“Stupid idea. You’d die.”

“Exactly. Now, I’ll have a look around, on the condition that you get somewhere comfortable and rest, yes? You’re in no condition to be wandering about, at least not until your fever’s broken.”

As soon as the words came out of his mouth, Jaskier felt as though he’d said too much. In his short time travelling with the Witcher, he’d managed to keep his domineering streak under control, sensing it would only cause problems. He clapped a hand over his mouth, but to his surprise Geralt didn’t object. Simply wrapped the bard’s tattered coat around his shoulder and leaned back with a great sigh. There were dark circles under his eyes, so deep they looked like they had been painted on. Jaskier reached out tentatively and brushed a strand of sweaty hair out of the Witcher’s face. Geralt pushed himself into the bard’s hand a bit, eyes falling shut.

“Let me know…if you find anything.” Gone was the constant growling quality of his voice, replaced instead with a weak whisper that sounded like it hurt to speak. Though, with the damage he had sustained to his throat, Jaskier wasn’t surprised. More concerned that his friend, who up until this point in their time together had seemed frighteningly invincible, had been brought so low so quickly. 

Just as Jaskier was about to turn and go, Geralt’s hand suddenly fisted around his leg, grip surprisingly strong and more than a little alarming. The bard looked back down nervously, seeing that the Witcher’s eyes were suddenly open again, alert and attentive despite his exhaustion.

“Stop,” he whispered harshly, “There’s someone coming.”

Dread filling his chest, Jaskier immediately squatted back down. He knew that Corvin couldn’t possibly plan to leave them alone for too long, but he had hoped to have a bit more time to scope out their cell. He was also terrified of what the elf would do when he got his hands on Geralt again. The lord had an undercurrent of something unsettling to him, something that Jaskier had often encountered in his earlier days when he had found work in brothels and on the rare occasions when he had come across screaming women and grunting men tucked away in back alleys. It frightened him more than he cared to admit. That type of violence was of a completely different ilk than the kind Geralt was used to dealing with. At least, Jaskier hoped it was unfamiliar to him. He knew almost nothing of the man’s backstory, except that people were not overfond of his kind, and that the world was a cruel place. 

“Help me up,” Geralt grunted, leaning forwards and placing his elbows on his knees, “The less he knows about my condition, the longer he’ll want to experiment before killing me.” 

It was a twisted sort of logic, but Jaskier understood the reasoning behind it. He braced his shoulder under Geralt’s and hauled him to his knees, and then his feet. They swayed there for a moment, trying to catch their breath and balance. Then, Geralt straightened. His breath evened out, his shoulders adjusted their cant. If Jaskier hadn’t known better, he would never have known that the man was wounded. If anything, he looked merely a little tired and battered. 

Even Jaskier could hear the oncoming footsteps by the time they were upright; several pairs of armoured boots that muffled the lighter sounds that would have been made by the soft-soled shoes he had seen Corvin in. Clinging on to the hope that perhaps it was simply some guards come to bring them dinner, Jaskier levered himself and Geralt towards the door.

“Ah, good to see you both still with us,” the smooth, attractive voice slid through the air as easily as silk through the fingers, and Jaskier’s heart plummeted to somewhere in his boots, “And here I was feeling concerned that perhaps our Witcher wouldn’t have survived the night. Though, I suppose there was no real need to fret. Those extra mutations must be good for something besides looks.”

Corvin swept into view then. He had left his guards behind him; only the soft swishing of his robes and boots and the maddening drip of the water remained. He offered the two of them a jovial smile, and Jaskier had to regulate his breathing to keep from throwing himself against the bars. Only the knowledge that he was probably the only thing keeping Geralt upright restrained him from the overwhelming temptation.

“What…the fuck do you want?” It was very rare that Jaskier, as a bard, struggled for words. But rage had clamped his jaw tightly shut, and there was red pulsing in the corners of his vision. Every aspect of their predicament had been carefully designed and planned by Corvin. He wouldn’t be surprised if the elf had somehow tried to manipulate their minds, feeding into the wrecking guilt they had both felt. If Jaskier was entirely honest, he was nowhere near free of that guilt yet. But by focusing his rage and fear somewhere else, he could at least ignore it until they either got free of this place or died. 

“Why, to check in on the two of you, of course! Mainly the Witcher. I’m very curious to see how his body is reacting to the lasting effects dimeritium poisonng. And…from the looks of it, at least, he’s quite possibly the most resilient subjects I’ve tested yet. Ah, this is excellent!”

Corvin clapped his hands and rubbed them together like a praying mantis, and Geralt shifted in Jaskier’s grip, leaning forwards as though he wanted to throttle the lord through the bars. Jaskier echoed this sentiment, but placed a steadying hand on the Witcher’s chest. There was no use in overexerting himself on a mission that was sure to fail. They needed a plan. Until then, Jaskier thought it was best they played their cards close to their chest. Especially when one of them was that Geralt was currently too weakened to stand without aid. 

“That being said, I’m sure we will all be spending quite some time getting to know each other,” Corvin continued cheerfully, “And I don’t want you to think I’m anything less than a gracious host. Guards!”

Two men came tromping into view, holding what appeared to be platters of food. Against every instinct in his body, Jaskier’s mouth began to water. He couldn’t remember the last time he had eaten, and the food looked scrumptious, steaming and piled high. The platters were placed down outside the cell, and Corvin spread his hands invitingly.

“Please, eat! I’ll even join you. I’d say it was about time for my afternoon meal.”

Another guard appeared and set down a gilded folding chair. He poured some wine into a goblet encrusted with rubies, which glittered dully in the torchlight, and passed it to the lord. Corvin sat with a sigh, leaning back and nibbling delicately on what appeared to be a cold chicken leg he had taken from one of the platters. Jaskier nearly lurched forward to snatch something from between the bars, but was stopped by Geralt’s hand on his chest, a mirror of the action he had made earlier. 

“Wait,” Geralt hissed, “He’s already drugged me once. And whatever that was, it could easily have killed a human.”

“Ah, no need to worry! I have decided, for the time being at least, to keep the bard around. He has proved to be a most useful bargaining chip when it comes to getting you to do what I wish. A weakness, perhaps, that the great White Wolf would rather was not publicized?”

“You said you’d free him,” Geralt snarled, leaning forward and nearly dragging Jaskier down with his weight, “If I survived your trials. You said he could walk out of here if I lived. Where’s your fucking sense of honour?”

“Honour is an attribute of men,” Corvin smiled unnaturally, “And as I’m sure you’ve already guessed, I am no man. I have no need to adhere to your medievalist practices and beliefs. I hold myself to something higher: the pursuit of learning. Now, please, enough of this animalistic banter. You must be starving. Come, eat.”

Jaskier could feel Geralt faltering underneath him. His muscles were fluttering, barely holding him upright, and his breaths were coming in ragged, heaving gasps. He looked absolutely miserable, the torches flickering against his face and making him look gaunter and ghastlier than he had in the dark. Whatever side effects the dimeritium had left on his body, they had yet to clear his system.

“Come on,” Jaskier kept his voice as low as possible, hoping against hope that Corvin’s glamour also kept him from using his enhanced elven hearing, “You’re dead on your feet. And he doesn’t seem to want to kill us…for the time being, at least. There can’t be any harm in having a bit of his food.”

Geralt sighed. Slumped, his shoulders hunching over. Awkwardly, he let his knees bend and take him none-too-gracefully down to the floor. Jaskier descended with him, hoping the lord was too entranced by his chicken and wine to notice that Geralt was a moment away from falling flat on his back. They settled leaning against the bars, and Jaskier passed Geralt a slice of bread with some cheese on it. He tore into it like a man possessed.

“So, Geralt,” Corvin leaned forwards, his eyes glittering with curiosity, “I must admit, I am intrigued. How do you feel?”

He had pulled a notebook and quill from one of the folds of his robe, and was now hovering the tip of the writing utensil over the parchment. Geralt made a face around his mouthful of cheese. The manacles on his wrists clinked with every bite he took, a constant reminder that he must still be hurting miserably, even though the dimeritium had been removed. The bits of shirt Jaskier had used earlier to wrap his wrists were red and sopping with blood and clear fluid from the weeping wounds. 

“Never been better.” The statement oozed sarcasm, and Jaskier nearly snorted despite his despair and fear. 

“Come now, you’re a participant in an experiment! And a very successful one, at that. You should be proud of yourself for surviving as long as you have. Now, provide me with all the details. How are the wounds? And the fever? I must know everything if I am to document my findings accurately.”

Corvin’s tone brooked no argument, but Geralt still took his time to chew and swallow his food before answering. Jaskier noticed he was looking rather nauseated, and wondered if it were perhaps too soon to have pushed food on him. Guilt reared its ugly head in his gut again, and he quickly pushed it down. That was a problem for later. 

“Wounds are healed. Fever’s gone. Some residual scarring around my neck and wrists.”

Jaskier wanted to slap Geralt. He understood that the Witcher didn’t want to expose how weak he really was to Corvin, but this was just idiotic. Convincing the lord that he was fine would only make him administer more horrific experiments faster. Not to mention that the Witcher was doing a piss-poor job of concealing his shivers underneath Jaskier’s ill-fitting jacket. 

Corvin did not argue, though. He simply smiled, a simpering thing.

“I’m glad to hear it. Perhaps we will be able to continue on to the next phase of my experiments sooner than I had anticipated. Based on your current state, I am sure you will not disappoint.”

Geralt frowned, and Jaskier did as well, for an entirely different reason. The world seemed to be blurring a bit around him, going fuzzy at the edges. He shook his head slowly, trying to make sense of what was happening and why everything suddenly seemed to have shifted. The floor bucked and rocked underneath him, and he planted his hands to keep himself balanced, but found that suddenly he was flat on his back, staring up at the slowly rotating ceiling. Geralt’s concerned face swam in his blurry vision, and there were words, shouting far away from him and a gentle, melodious laugh. Jaskier couldn’t be bothered to understand what they were saying. His ears had suddenly filled with water. 

His senses went very quickly after that. First his hearing disappeared, to be replaced with an infernal ringing sound, and when he tried to lift his hands to clear his ears, he found they were too weak to move. His sense of smell must have disappeared a while ago, though he had failed to notice it, lacking Geralt’s supreme reliance on his senses. Finally, with the Witcher’s fair hair and wordlessly moving lips darkened and faded away, until there was nothing left.

Geralt was beginning to question the wisdom of indulging in Corvin’s food. It was all rich and dense; even the bread that Jaskier had passed to him was of the type made with eggs and glazed sweetly on top, and while normally such a morsel would have been a luxury, Geralt currently found himself fighting to keep the contents of his stomach where they belonged. If it hadn’t been for the bard’s pleading look, he probably wouldn’t have eaten anything at all. But since they had been reunited, it was clear Jaskier was struggling with guilt and the impending, looming fear that death was nigh. It was painful for Geralt to imagine him on his own, somewhere in this fortress, believing that all the suffering being inflicted upon the Witcher was his fault. It surprised him that he felt so strongly about how the bard had been suffering, but he was now determined to do everything he could to appease the man. Even if it meant choking down too-sweet bread on a rolling, ill feeling stomach.

Corvin was speaking to him, but after he had refused to release Jaskier, Geralt was too preoccupied trying to wrangle his thoughts enough to come up with a way to kill the man to pay much attention. He answered his questions, vaguely, trying to give away as little about his weakened condition as possible. When the lord suggested he might attempt further experiments on him, Geralt felt his features arrange themselves into a frown, and his heart plummet in his chest, swooping like a seabird. It was nothing new, though. He had been an experiment before and survived. Surely, if there was even the slightest chance he could get the bard out of here alive if he only survived, he could accomplish such a feat again. A deep tiredness settled in his gut, and he tried very hard not to vomit. Perhaps when Jaskier went to sleep, he could find some secluded corner of the cell in which to relieve his stomach of its contents.

Preoccupied as he was, Geralt barely registered the faint dizziness floating on the edge of his consciousness. Truth be told, he had been dizzy since the dimeritium shackles had first been wrapped around his wrists and neck. But when Jaskier suddenly slumped forwards, half-eaten mutton leg falling from his limp, pale fingers, Geralt jerked back to the present with a thudding heart. He lunged forwards, ignoring his own weakness and the fact that he nearly puked simply from moving. His arms wrapped around the bard as he crumpled forwards, keeping him from smacking his head against the bars. Somewhere in the background, Corvin laughed raucously.

“The fuck did you do to him?”

“Ah, my dear Witcher, nothing I didn’t do to you! Though you seem to be much more immune to it than he is. I must say, though, I was always under the impression that your guild was able to smell poisons in their food and wine. You’ve disappointed me. I suppose further tests will be necessary.”

Geralt snarled wordlessly, a heaviness settling in his chest right next to the nausea. Corvin had been testing him. Seeing if he was able to identify a toxin in their food. He had failed, and now Jaskier was suffering the consequences.

“Don’t worry,” Corvin motioned at a guard, who came and gathered up the tray of food, “Neither of you will die. There’s some further use for you yet.”

With that, he stood, taking another drink out of his ornate chalice. In a detached sort of way, Geralt’s mind computed that the antidote to whatever drug had been in the food must have been in the wine, which had not been offered to either of them. Red anger pulsed in him, and he spun away from Corvin’s retreating form, slapping Jaskier’s face gently, trying to rouse him to get a better catalogue of what symptoms the bard was experiencing.

“Come on, you, wake up.” Geralt refused to acknowledge that there was probably a layer of fondness to his voice underneath the thick heaviness of nausea. There would be time later on to analyze the strange new set of feelings he appeared to be experiencing for the bard. Either that, or he would die before he had the chance to understand them.

“Mmm…Geralt?”

Jaskier’s eyes blinked open, hazy and confused, and he swallowed miserably. Geralt gleaned from this that they were probably experiencing similar levels of nausea.

“Yes. Stay awake, I have no idea what he gave you.”

With no further ado, Geralt shoved a few fingers into Jaskier’s mouth, prying it open, and scented his breath. The bard struggled against him, looking confused and frightened, and he realized in retrospect that he probably should have warned him about what was going to happen before he did it. After all, he was not a corpse, which was usually the only time Geralt had to lean in in such a way to get a whiff of whatever toxins had been on the breath of the afflicted person. The dimeritium poisoning was still affecting his senses more than he would have liked. 

“Trying to figure out what they gave us.”

Jaskier relaxed a bit then, though he looked extremely nauseous and kept squeezing his eyes shut, closing his mouth to swallow around Geralt’s fingers. For his part, Geralt was completely unable to detect even a trace of scent beyond the headiness of mutton leg and something else which smelled a bit like a red wine glaze, probably used to marinate the mutton before it had been served. Frustrated, he yanked his fingers out of Jaskier’s mouth and growled, shaking his head to clear it a bit. He was very nauseous, and it was getting more and more difficult to ignore. 

“Any luck?” The bard’s teeth were gritted, and he was trembling now. 

“Not as of yet. Lie still. Corvin assured me that it wasn’t his intention to kill us.”

Jaskier gave a little whimper at that, and Geralt wasn’t able to say whether it was out of relief or discomfort. The two of them settled back against the wall, roles reversed from earlier on with the bard resting his head on Geralt’s thighs.

“My hair…” It was nothing more than a breath, and Geralt looked down, confused.

“What? What’s wrong with it?” Geralt immediately began plowing his hands through the bard’s hair, trying to find blood or any other sign of a wound.

“No…touch it. Please? Keeps me…present.”

Several replies immediately surfaced on Geralt’s lips, most of them snide remarks about how he wasn’t Jaskier’s lover, and how that would do absolutely nothing to help his pain or nausea. But suddenly a memory accosted him, of his Trials, many years ago. Of Eskel, at his bedside while he was recovering, running his hands through his newly silver hair. It had been comforting then, he recalled, and warm. He even had a vague inkling that it had soothed the headache that had plagued him for weeks after his Trials. And, strangely enough, he found himself more than willing to offer that comfort to the bard as well. After all the man had been through on Geralt’s account, it seemed only reasonable. Especially considering how miserable he looked at the moment. 

Somewhat awkwardly, Geralt rubbed his fingers along Jaskier’s scalp. His wrists ached as he did it, tendons grinding painfully against the manacles. He winced, but mostly just as an acknowledgement that it hurt. Jaskier had relaxed in his grip, and that was a good enough reason to keep on going, no matter how ridiculous and strange it made him feel.

At some point shortly thereafter (Geralt wasn’t exactly sure; he was still fevered, and he had probably lost time), Jaskier fell asleep, breaths evening from the shaky, fear-laden ones to snuffling, soft half-snores of rest. Relieved, Geralt stopped running his fingers through the bard’s hair. He had not wanted to stop while he was still awake, but his arms and fingers were aching fiercely, and trembling with the simple exertion. Under his pale skin, his veins were still darkened, and there could be no doubt that the blood poisoning was still working its way through his system. It was frustrating, to be so weak that he couldn’t even offer Jaskier the meagre protection of physical comfort once the bard had dropped off into rest.

Leaning back, Geralt reflected on the oddity of his thoughts. Physical contact was not something he himself would ever think of as comforting. At least, it hadn’t been before he had met the bard. Now, even offering Jaskier comfort appeared to have slowed his elevated heartrate and calmed his feverish mind. It was strange. Geralt wasn’t entirely sure how comfortable he was with it, but he was very tired, and his ankle and wrists and neck were all throbbing simultaneously. The world was growing blurry around him as well, and without really realizing what was happening, he let his head slump back against the rough cavern and his mind fell into an uneasy, fitful rest.

A strange tapping jolted Geralt from his sleep, along with the unpleasant sensation that he was falling. He jerked awake, hands clenched, gasping as though he had been doused with a bucket of ice water. His breaths came quickly and furiously, each one gratingly painful against his sensitive teeth and raw throat. The fever must have worsened, he thought, doubling over and trying to fill his lungs with air.

“H-hello? Are you awake?” A small voice was calling into the darkness, made all the more pitiful by its lack of origin in the inky blackness. At some point, someone must have snuffed the torches out. Perhaps it was nighttime. There was no concept of time, and no way to measure the passage of it, in this accursed place.

“What do you want?” Geralt wanted the statement to sound forceful, but it came out raspy and miserable. He doubled over to cough up some blood when he was done speaking, and he felt something stir in his lap. Ah, yes. Jaskier. The drugged food. Unpleasant memories rushed back to him in force.

“I…I’ve come to help you,” the small voice lowered to a stage whisper then, as though its owner was afraid of being heard, “Come to the bars. I have something that might offer you a way out.”

Jaskier was snuffling tiredly now, blinking blearily against the blackness that was probably impenetrable to his human eyes. Geralt placed a hand on top of his head, trying to calm his jerky movements.

“I can toss it in, if you’d prefer,” the speaker continued on, seemingly unaware of the small turmoils of the cell’s occupants, “If you don’t trust me, that is. I can understand why you wouldn’t. I saw what he did to you.”

There was a shudder then, and, curious, Geralt moved Jaskier’s head aside and tried to make his way towards where he knew the bars were set into the stone. As soon as he made to stand, though, every muscle in his body seized, and he slumped sideways, shaking. He was suddenly very hot, and blue lights flashed and blinked before his eyes. He groaned.

“Ye Gods, are you alright?”

“Fine,” Geralt ground out, getting his shaky hands planted on the ground and heaving himself to his knees, leaning heavily on the walls, “Sprained ankle.”

There was a rush of footsteps on the other side of the bars, and Geralt was able to make out a vague shape; a masculine build, shorter than himself but taller than Jaskier. As the person approached, the Witcher smelled something familiar. Fear. It was the frightened boy, the one who had stood trembling at the door while he had been shackled and who had slipped the bottle of salve into his numb, shaking hands when he had first been brought to the cell. With a clattering of chains, Geralt inched his way forward. His sore hands sought purchase on the rough wall, and he was able to make some progress, keeping his weight off his bad leg and taking a few breaks to cough and catch his breath. The boy waited patiently. 

“You look terrible,” he breathed, when Geralt was finally near enough to the bars that he could sink down gratefully against them, “It’s worse than I thought.”

“What would you know…about any of this?” The wretched heat underneath Geralt’s skin was burning even more fiercely now, as though his body was simply trying to light itself up and be consumed in the flames of fever. He was panting heavily, also due in part to his exertions in getting to the bars. Doubt circled in his fuzzy head. He couldn’t understand why this boy was helping them. Perhaps he couldn’t bear to see Jaskier in such a state. After all, he was a human. Witchers were not deserving of sympathy from humans, but to see their own kind in pain was an entirely different matter. 

“I’m…a representative of a concerned party,” the boy stated elusively, and Geralt was immediately able to recognize the lack of inflection in his words that meant that someone else had told him to say exactly this, “a concerned party that wants to help you.”

“…Who…would want to help us?”

“A-a concerned party.” The statement was final, closing that particular line of enquiry. Geralt’s hazy curiosity was piqued, though. If this boy really could help them, he would need to pursue answers when they were out of here and Jaskier was recovered.

The boy had now approached Geralt, and the Witcher could practically feel the tremors vibrating off him. Whoever he was working for, the boy was clearly desperately frightened of them. Or perhaps it was simply the idea of betraying Corvin within his very fortress that was making him reek of terror. Or the fact that he was currently inches away from a Witcher, albeit an incapacitated one.

Running short on patience and the ability to keep himself awake and alert, Geralt stuck a hand between the bars, wincing as the chains caught and rattled, pulling at the wounded skin underneath.

“Do what you came for,” he grunted, between panting breaths, “And get out of here before Corvin discovers you. He won’t show you any mercy, if he finds you down here. Damn bastard is set on…keeping us here.”

The boy pressed something small and metallic into Geralt’s hand, which was still tingling and numb from the dimeritium.

“The key to the cell. Your weapons are in the armoury shed outside the main fortress. You can’t miss it. If you can fight your way out, do it as soon as possible. Corvin won’t let you or your bard live long once you’re no longer of use to him.”

Geralt had to work for a moment to get his damaged hand to close around the key, numb fingers curling reluctantly. When he was done, he looked up and tried to seek out the boy’s eyes, shielded as they were by his helmet. His medallion, which had not been taken from him, buzzed gently, and Geralt wondered why, but was too tired and fevered and preoccupied by the idea of escape to dwell on it.

“Give…my regards to your master,” he sighed, collapsing against the cell bars, “Whoever they are, they have my thanks.”

“They know.” The boy nodded once, with sharp, military precision, and set off at a gentle jog up the stairs. His armoured boots clanked dully against the stones, and Geralt leaned back, fingering the key, utterly spent.

It was at that moment that he remembered he had abandoned Jaskier partially awake in the darkened recesses of the cell. There were gentle noises coming from the bard’s general direction, and Geralt started upright, having barely realized he was nearly asleep.

“Jaskier? Are you alright?”

“I’d be better if you were here. I can’t see a thing in this damned darkness.”

Jaskier’s voice sounded a little weary and worse for wear, but all in all he seemed to have regained most of his faculties, along with his penchant for good-natured griping. Breathing a sigh of relief, Geralt leaned back.

“Give me a moment,” he panted, “Or come here. We’ve had a visitor.”

“Perhaps I’d better be asking you if you’re alright. You sound a fright, Geralt.”

“Hmm.”

Geralt was blinking drowsily by now, his re-emerging fever pulsing hot and heavy underneath his flesh. His shirt, which had been returned to him at some point, was stuck to his back with cold sweat, and he was simultaneously feeling very hot and very cold. He wished Jaskier would just get up and come, so he could show the bard the key and then get some rest before they tried to escape.

The gentle patter of hesitant steps on the stone floor started up, and after a few muttered curses and the distinct sound of flesh coming violently in contact with stone, Jaskier tottered into view, looking a bit dizzy and tired, but otherwise unharmed. It was clear he couldn’t make anything out in the darkness though; he nearly tripped over Geralt before the Witcher reached up a hasty hand to grab his leg and stop him tumbling headfirst into the bars. He swore when his ruined wrist protested the sudden movement, and Jaskier dropped heavily to his knees.

“Goddess, Geralt, what are you doing up here? How did you even stand, with your ankle in such a state?”

Geralt grimaced, thinking some things were better left to the imagination. Besides, the bard was clearly still feeling very guilty about this whole ordeal. No need to add to his misery by explaining exactly how he had managed to drag his injured body across the rough stone floor.

“I managed. How’s your head?”

“Better than it was. A bit sore, but I think whatever damned thing he gave me wore off quickly. I’ve a very good tolerance to hallucinogenic drugs. It comes in handy more often than you might imagine.”

There was a small twinge of pride in the bard’s voice, and Geralt smiled lopsidedly, reflecting on the idiocy of youth. It had been many years since he would have been tempted to say such a thing, but he appreciated the bard’s honesty.

Jaskier busied himself slapping a hand to Geralt’s forehead, though he missed the first few times in the darkness and nearly cracked the Witcher’s head back into the bars instead. When he finally managed to check him for fever, he swore.

“Geralt, you’re still burning up! Goddess, this is horrible. I’ll kill that bastard if we ever get out of here, I swear it.”

“About that…”

Slowly, carefully, Geralt unclenched his sore hand, revealing the key. Remembering the bard was still probably heavily impeded by the darkness, he clumsily placed the key in his hand. Jaskier’s eyes widened, and a small grin appeared on his face. It was the first expression of joy Geralt had seen on his countenance since they had been captured, and he found, surprisingly, that he had missed seeing Jaskier smile. It was a brilliant thing, but sincere in a way that was rare.

“Oh, Geralt,” he breathed, “You know I thought we would never make it out of here. How you continue to surprise me, my friend…if you don’t mind me calling you that, of course?”

“Hmm…wasn’t me. We have…a beneficiary.” Geralt’s clumsy tongue stumbled on the word a few times before it made it out of his mouth, and Jaskier let out a hoarse, sobbing little laugh. Quite unexpectedly, he wrapped his arms around the Witcher, his sides heaving. Confused, Geralt leaned into it. His fever was leaving him shivering and icy, and Jaskier was very, very warm.

They stayed like that for an unusually long time, longer than Geralt would have defined as being practical had he been in a better state of mind. He was beginning to drift, though, supported and warm and more asleep than awake. Jaskier appeared to have fallen asleep as well, and their complimentary weight ended up balancing them out, leaving them leaning against one another but not falling. Fuzzily, Geralt hoped the bard was really as well as he was trying to make it seem. Being drugged was no small thing, especially under such circumstances. It was clear Jaskier was still very tired. Geralt would not begrudge him the rest. Not when he himself was also mere moments from drifting off. They would need all the strength they could gather up between the two of them if they were to make it out of this place alive.

Geralt must have fallen asleep. Her jerked awake with a gasp and a start sometime later, and discovered, both to his relief and disappointment, that his hands and neck were no longer numb from the dimeritium. They throbbed far worse than before, a bone-deep ache, and there was fresh, red blood dribbling from under the iron manacles. It coated his throat as well, a gory necklace, and he swallowed convulsively. Sweat poured from his face and mixed in with the wounds, making them sting.

Jaskier started awake as well, grumbling and rubbing at his eyes sleepily. He looked very owlish in the darkness, and winced, putting a hand up to his head the moment his eyes opened. When he realized Geralt must be watching him, though, he quickly composed his face into an indifferent mask, hiding all the evidence that he was in pain. Too tired to argue, Geralt leaned back, resisting the urge to stretch his aching muscles.

“Morning,” Jaskier yawned, rolling his shoulders painfully, “Or night. I can’t even keep track of how long we’ve been down here anymore. Too long.”

“Mhmm.” Geralt was feeling very dizzy. He realized belatedly that his fever peaking before it broke must have been what had woken him. Floating unmoored in a sea of his own sick heat, it was very difficult to focus on what the bard was saying. He must have noticed, and leaned forwards, looking concerned and saddened.

“Oh, Geralt,” he said, voice aching with guilt, “You’re so ill. Come here, rest a bit. I didn’t mean to suggest that we try to leave today. I’ll wait until you’re ready. There’s no point in trying to make our way out of here if you’re in no condition even to stand.”

“’M fine. Fever’s breaking. Give me…a moment.” The last part of his speech was strangled as another wave of heat overtook him, and Jaskier had to catch him before he collapsed backwards onto the floor.

“At least your blood seems to be running red again.”

“Hmm.”

“Indeed.”

They settled comfortably for a while after that while Geralt’s body tried to work off the last vestiges of his fever. He shook for a long while, hot and cold all at once, sweat soaking everything around him and making him feel rather humid and repulsive. Jaskier was rubbing his back, which was also odd. The bard would never have dared to do such a thing a few days ago. Was he really that sick?

At some point during the final hours of his fever, Jaskier changed the makeshift bandages on Geralt’s wrists and neck, rubbed the last of the cooling salve on them. He sighed in relief when it was done, feeling much better now that his wrists were no longer itching abominably and that the crusted blood and sweat had been wiped away. Shortly after that, his fever broke in a great, gasping wave, and Geralt sank back against the bard, shoulders heaving, muscles trembling. He took a moment to collect himself.

“I’m…alright. We can go. Before Corvin returns.”

Jaskier let out a barking laugh at that.

“Geralt, mere moments ago you were shuddering and trembling too hard to control. You’re soaked with sweat, and your wounds are nowhere near even beginning to heal. It doesn’t seem very sensible to try to leave now.”

“We can’t…afford to wait. Come.”

Using the bard’s shoulder as a brace, Geralt struggled to his feet, grimacing as his ankle trembled and tried to take his weight. The dimeritium poisoning had left his body with the fever, leaving him weak and shaky and very tired but no more worse for wear than after a night where his blood had reached particularly high toxicity. Jaskier shot to his feet next to the Witcher, offering up a shoulder before his ankle buckled.

“Geralt,” he said gently, “This is madness. You’ll get yourself killed.”

“Then get yourself out while I’m dying.” He hadn’t meant his words to sound quite so harsh, but he was tired, and sore, and wanted very desperately to find somewhere to sleep and heal from his injuries. There was something lurking at the back of his mind, an unsettled feeling he hadn’t been able to shake since he had experienced the hallucinations of his mother and Renfri, of the girl named Falka. He needed somewhere quiet to meditate and let go of his anxieties.

Jaskier had choked at his words, though, and he quickly back tracked, knowing the already sensitive bard was probably on his last emotional legs. Not that Geralt knew anything about such things.

“We’ll…be fine. Just stick close to me. I know where they’ve stored our weapons.”

Lifting a sleeve to his face, Geralt wiped at his sweaty brow. It was stinging at his eyes, making it hard to see. Or perhaps that was the residual dizziness, the blackness encroaching around his eyes. Oh, well. That was the path. If nothing else, he needed to see Jaskier off safely before he succumbed to the darkness. At least then he would have succeeded at making one human’s life marginally better, and hopefully a bit longer as well. To make up for all the ones he had shortened, intentionally or otherwise.

Shaking himself, Geralt got a grip on the cell bars and his thoughts. He was spiralling, he realized. A side effect of a newly broken fever and not having had the opportunity to meditate for what must have been several days. 

When he looked up, Jaskier was watching him with an undeniably concerned and fearful look in his eyes. If Geralt had better been able to trust his still flickering eyesight, he would have sworn he saw tears glistening on the bard’s cheeks. As it was, though, he shook it off as nonsense. They had only been travelling together a few months. And he was nothing worth crying over, even if they had known longer. Briefly, the thought of Eskel crying over his demise entered Geralt’s brain. It was so absurd, he snorted. 

“This is not funny,” Jaskier sniffled, sounding suddenly very choked up, “You-you’re goddamn wobbly and-and bleeding everywhere, and your neck is oozing some sort of foul black goo, and you have the audacity to laugh about it?”

“S’not that.”

“Ah. Because that makes it so much better.”

Geralt didn’t dignify that with an answer. Jaskier’s ever-changing moods were confusing at the best of times, and now, with his brain still half turned to sludge from fever, it was harder to understand what the bard was thinking that it was tracking a rotfiend through a bog. He sighed and leaned his aching head in his palm. A tentative hand came to rest on his brow, and he started up, surprised. He was no longer fevered. There was no need for Jaskier to be touching him with such…tenderness.

“What’re you doing?”

“Offering support,” Jaskier snorted, with a fitting combination of irony and misery, “I’m not sure to which one of us.”

“Mhmm. Come…we need to go. Before someone returns.”

Trying to get himself to his feet with as little grunting and apparent effort as possible, Geralt braced himself on the bars. His wrists twinged, and his legs wobbled the moment he put any weight on them. In his eagerness, he had forgotten the broken ankle as well, and it collapsed under his weight. Something smacked hard against his arm, and the bard was there, taking his weight, bearing it with barely a grunt and only a slight struggle. His eyes crossed momentarily, and something panged in Geralt’s chest when he remembered it hadn’t been that long ago since the bard had been drugged unconscious. He quickly took back his own weight, supporting himself against the bars of the cell. Jaskier raised a fine eyebrow, aristocratic looks and bearing shining through for a moment.

“Just let me help you. You can’t expect to just limp your way up there all on your own.”

“Yes, I can. It wouldn’t be the first time.”

“Goddess, please, Geralt. Whatever you might say, I can’t help but feel like I’m responsible for this whole mess. And I’ve been perfectly awful to you for days because I’ve been so wrapped up in how miserable and nervous I am. You’ve been shouldering the burden of my ill temper for weeks. So, just this once, let me help a bit with yours. If not for you, then with the knowledge that it will do something to assuage my guilt.”

There was a pleading lilt to the end of Jaskier’s speech, an upward inflection Geralt had often heard in laments and tragic ballads. He bit his tongue. Sighed, leaned back against the bars of the cell. Finally, he raised an aching arm.

“None of this is your fault,” he qualified, because it felt like the right thing to do for someone with so many raw feelings, “And you’ve not been awful. I haven’t noticed a difference.”

There was that small, snuffling snort again. Unsure of what to do, Geralt passed Jaskier the key, which had warmed under his still slightly feverish fingers. Carefully, cautiously, the bard snaked a wrist around the door. Inserted the key into the lock. Turned, quietly. The hinges were well-oiled, Geralt noticed with approval. Even the door swung open with barely a squeak.

Barely taking time to think or even to sight with relief, they limped out into the hallway. Geralt was leaning nearly fully on Jaskier now, trying not to think about it too much, dwelling instead on the burning pain shooting through his whole body. They worked their way towards the stairs, at the bottom of which Jaskier stopped. Geralt looked down at him, questioning.

“Will you be able to manage?”

No one had ever asked that before, especially not when he was wounded. Except perhaps Vesemir and his brothers, and even then, it was more impatient than the soft gentleness expressed in the bard’s words.

“Of course.”

Jaskier wrapped his spare arm around Geralt’s waist, the other clutching tightly to the crude metal railing. Gritting his teeth, the Witcher limped up the first stair, his uneven steps pressing a strange staccato beat into the echoing chamber they left behind them. His breaths were hot, rapid, and his wrists and neck stung. At some point, he must have sagged exhaustedly, because the bard caught him and braced him against the wall.

“Come, you’re nearly there. Bollocks, you’re getting warm again. I thought you’d just finished with being fevered.”

“Effort, not fever, I think. And ‘bollocks’ isn’t the word I would choose.”

“You definitely have a fever again. The Geralt I know would face a whole nest of drowners before arguing word choice with me. When did you suddenly sprout a sense of humour?” The words were coloured with sadness and guilt still.

“Hmm.”

“That’s better. Come on, you’re doing so well. Nearly there now. I can see the top.”

Under normal circumstances, Geralt would indeed have flipped the bard over his shoulder and sent him careening down the stairs, or at the very least gotten in a good punch for using such patronizing language. However, he just couldn’t picture himself doing that anymore. Somewhere along the line, that had become an unacceptable way to treat him. Sighing exhaustedly, he peeled his sweat-soaked back away from the wall, pushing his weight back into Jaskier’s arms. Together, they ascended the staircase into the slightly brighter light of the guttering torches far above.


	5. No Near Miss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt and Jaskier continue to make their way towards the surface, but their journey homeward may not be as simple as they had hoped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Brief mentions of non-consensual sexual innuendos (nothing happens, just a brief peek inside Corvin's sick mind), as well as some pretty cannon-typical blood and gore. 
> 
> Thank you all so much again for reading and enjoying and leaving kudos/comments on the last chapter. Tuesday is now my favourite day because I love seeing what everyone thinks of where I'm taking this story. For something that was supposed to be a one-shot, it's turned into a bit of a monstrosity (expecting another five chapters at least), so buckle up folks, and thanks for continuing to enjoy the ride with me!

Later, Jaskier was never truly sure how long they struggled on for. The stairs seemed never-ending at first, and when they reached the top they were greeted by a maze of passageways, each looking exactly the same to the bard. He stopped, confused, shaking Geralt a bit. The Witcher was sagging against him, breath coming in harsh pants. He looked exhausted.

“Geralt? Which way do we go?”

He lifted his head, and Jaskier winced to see the darkened bags under his eyes. He looked as though he hadn’t slept in a week. In silence, Geralt breathed deeply through his nose, nostrils flaring a bit, and closed his eyes. Jaskier was fascinated by his highly attuned senses, and watched closely as he swung his head back and forth like a hound scenting the air, before eventually jerking his head towards the leftmost passage.

“That one. It leads to open air.”

He slumped again then, and Jaskier caught his weight with a grunt. He was still feeling the side effects of the drug Corvin had given him; a headache and general weakness that he would never admit to around Geralt. He had enough problems without worrying about the useless bard who couldn’t even shake off the ingestion of some hallucinogens. It was shameful, really, for him to even make note of his condition while Geralt was in such a state and still taking the lead and managing to get them out of this hell.

Together, they limped towards the passage. It was lit by a few torches, and the air no longer stank of rot and dampness. The walls were better carved as well; clearly this was a more frequently travelled area of the castle. The thought made Jaskier extremely nervous. Neither of them had been left with any weapons, and Geralt was in no condition to defend them even if they happened to find a dagger lying about.

Curiously enough, though, the hall was empty. Too empty, in fact. And far too quiet. It was as though the legions of soldiers had simply vanished; there was not even the distant tromp of boots to mark their presence. While Jaskier did not consider himself an expert in military matters, he was well acquainted with acoustics. There was no possibility that anyone could be moving about in such an acoustically live system of caverns without creating a ruckus through every tunnel. Heart pounding anxiously, the bard ventured onwards, hoping he wouldn’t have to trouble Geralt with his misgivings. The Witcher’s legs were wobbling under him, and his breaths heaved as though he might vomit. A few times, Jaskier stopped just to let him catch some air back into his lungs. It was a miserable, dark task, to see his friend suffer so and know that he had no choice but to push on.

After several such breaks, the bard moved to lean them against the wall again, and Geralt put a pale hand on his shoulder.

“’M fine. We need to get out of here.” The words were garbled, mumbled, and Jaskier felt tears pricking the backs of his eyes again. Another weakness he could not afford.

While he was busy trying to school back his sobbing breaths, Geralt had braced himself on the wall and pushed himself up on his own, back suddenly straight and both feet firmly planted on the uneven ground. He took a breath like that, swaying for a moment as he got his balance back, and then stepped forwards with more stability than Jaskier had seen in his movements since Corvin had brought him to the dungeon. The bard rushed forwards to offer him support, but Geralt brushed him aside with a hand that no longer held a tremor. Only the sweat beading and dripping down his forehead belied the agony every movement must have been causing him.

“I’ll walk out of here on my own.” He grunted stiffly, continuing forwards.

“You’ll accept my help once we escape?”

“We’ll have Roach.”

Jaskier couldn’t argue with that logic; Roach was much larger and stronger than he was, and much less prone to fits of tears during the midst of their daring escape. He wondered again why Geralt didn’t simply leave him behind. Perhaps he would, yet. Jaskier still did not feel that he had proven himself to be a worthy travel companion, or even someone who could be trusted to complete the most menial of tasks. After all, Geralt was still wounded and exhausted, despite the bard’s best efforts.

They proceeded in silence after that. Geralt’s breathing was laboured, and Jaskier was so concerned about the Witcher’s wellbeing as well as his own failures that he couldn’t find the energy to spare on pointless conversation. Geralt was probably relieved, he reflected bitterly.

Finally, just when the bard was convinced the tunnel would stretch on forever, and endless hellish blackness lit only by the occasional torch, he smelled something. A slight disturbance in the air, and freshness which he had gone so long without that he nearly forgot what it felt like. It was the sweetness of clean, outside air.

“Geralt! Do you smell that?”

“Mhmm.”

He realized that was probably an idiotic question; Geralt had smelled the fresh air all the way back when they had been at the divergence of the passageways. He couldn’t contain a small spark of elation, though, at the thought that they might actually make it out of this place alive. Or at least that he would get to see the sun again before Corvin inevitably swept down and killed them. Jaskier felt they had nearly used up their good luck simply making it through the cave system without encountering a patrol.

Their pace was a bit quicker after that; Jaskier was eager to see the surface and Geralt seemed to simply want to get to Roach and get as far away from this place as possible. His breathing was becoming more and more laboured again, and his limp was so pronounced that Jaskier was surprised he was still able to walk at all. It was more like hopping, and his hand was kept braced against the wall every time he had to put even the smallest amount of weight on his bad ankle.

Finally, suddenly and blindingly, a light appeared directly before them as they rounded a corner in the stone tunnel. Jaskier gasped, shocked, blue lights flashing before his eyes at the sudden brilliance. Geralt did not falter, or if he did the bard was too busy focusing on his own temporary blindness to notice. He nearly laughed out loud with joy. There had been a large part of him that had believed he would die in that cave system, having bid goodbye to daylight without even realizing it had been their final parting. Part of Jaskier even thought to wrap his arms around Geralt’s waist, to offer him support and share a bit of his contagious elation. But he knew such an offering would not be a welcome one to the touch averse Witcher. He settled on sighing happily instead, the misery and heartache of moments before temporarily forgotten. Geralt turned, a faint flicker of upturned lips dancing across his pale, sweaty face.

“Too bright?” There was an almost joking cadence to his gruff voice. Surprised, Jaskier took a moment to respond. Perhaps Geralt did have a sense of humour hidden somewhere within himself after all.

“Not at all. In fact, I think it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” he spread his arms wide, feeling the most like himself that he had in weeks, joviality leaping in his heart in a way that felt almost unfamiliar after going so long without, “I shall write a song about it! The ballad of the dawn after days in dark confinement! A personal testament to the daring escape of a Witcher and bard.”

Geralt snorted. He was panting, leaning heavily against the wall. In the light, he looked even sicker than he had in the darkness and torchlight. There were still faint black lines tracing the veins in his face.

“Hmm. Not yet.”

“No, I suppose you’re right. Shall we? I’m longing for a bit of sunshine. My complexion does best when not abandoned in the darkness of a dungeon for days on end.”

Jaskier’s joy felt more forced now again, only the faint hint of Geralt’s smile spurring him onward. Every time he saw how ill the Witcher looked, how far from himself he was and how every step looked exceptionally painful, he was reminded of his own weakness. He offered an arm, but again Geralt shook it off, limping ahead even though with each step he grew slower and more dependent on the support of the wall. The bard trailed behind, feeling utterly useless, until the emerged, blinking and squinting, into the full and brilliant sunshine of a beautiful, crisp autumn morning.

For one second, Jaskier felt nothing but sheer elation. Every ounce of him that felt burdened with guilt and shame, every part of him that was ripped apart because he would never be good enough, cowered in the full and perfect light of the autumn sun. He wished to spread his arms and laugh for joy and run for as long and as fast as he could, away across the hills until he came to some unknown land full of mysteries about which he would compose the most beautiful ballads of all time. He could almost taste the exotic flowers, the mist of excitement and new beginnings in the air. Perhaps Geralt would come with him. He could ride Roach, heal up somewhere and then they could be on their way, gone from these lands that were so rife with cruelty.

It was one glorious second. One moment, when everything seemed possible. And then, with one voice, one word, every illusion Jaskier might have had about leaving this place unscathed shattered around him, the shards landing on the ground at his feet like a mound of broken glass. It cut sharp, straight to his soul. An immense agony bore down on him as he listened to that fateful voice speak.

“And just where do you think you’re going?” It was coarse, the accent of a local villager, not a Nilfgaardian soldier or even one of Corvin’s men, all of whom seemed more refined, as though the elf lord had imported them from some distant land where men spoke with more pomp than they did in the townships of Velen. Geralt lurched to a halt, and Jaskier smacked into his back, causing him to stumble forwards and groan brokenly as he caught his weight on his bad ankle. Jaskier swore and caught him until he regained his footing. They both turned to the right, faces gazing upwards towards the sound of the voice.

A young man was standing on a battlement a little way above them. The tunnel they had taken led out into a sort of courtyard, carpeted with lush grass and surrounded on three sides by a high wooden wall and on the fourth side by a buttress of the castle, which was built straight into the rock face. Just beyond the walls, Jaskier could see the near idealistic looking rolling hills that dotted the Velen countryside. Freedom was so close that the bard could almost taste the sweet air of the countryside.

The guard was more immediate, though. He was standing on the wall that backed onto the green hills beyond, cutting a striking silhouette against the beautiful green background. His posture was stiff, nervous, and his long hair fiddled restlessly in the wind. Long, pale fingers fiddled anxiously with the trigger of a crossbow, which he had aimed directly at Jaskier’s sternum. The bard thought his heart might simply stop out of pure terror.

Geralt, who was standing slightly in front of him (though a fair amount of his weight was now resting on a conveniently placed armour rack), raised an arm in the air. His voice, calm and stately and deep, cut through the air with a convincing, placating tone.

“We won’t hurt you,” he stated simply, “We just want to go free. The bard has a family, same as you, yes? Someone to provide for? Someone who would be disappointed if he died.”

_Or if you were to become a killer of men._ The unspoken words hung heavily in the thick autumnal air. Jaskier had never known Geralt had such eloquence in him, such raw persuasive power. Or perhaps he had simply not seen it before now. After all, the man had spent years convincing humans not to kill him, even when he carried only the mantle of the Butcher of Blaviken, having not yet become the White Wolf of Rivia. Surely, he would not have lasted long in a world so determined to hate him if he did not possess the appropriate tools to keep himself afloat. Distantly, Jaskier thought that in another life Geralt might have made a good bard. Such natural eloquence was a rare gift, even though the Witcher so rarely chose to use it.

The soldier was hesitating now, and there was a slight quiver in the hands that had once held the crossbow so steadily. He shifted from foot to foot, unsure. The wind was picking up, whistling over the wooden wall, pushing his brown hair into his face, and he reached up to free it from his mouth, moving his hand away from the release of the bow. Cautiously, Geralt took a step forward.

“I just need to retrieve my weapons, then we’ll be gone. Is that alright?”

In an instant, the boy’s hand was back on the crossbow. Geralt lurched to a stop, unsteady legs wobbling beneath him. Jaskier offered him an elbow as discreetly as he could, but the Witcher brushed him away.

“N-no! Stop! I-I’m not to let anyone leave! If I do…he has my family! He’ll kill them, I know he will! Everyone in this city, he has them all, and none can be allowed to live unless we follow his orders, down to the last word. I-I’m sorry, but I can’t.”

They stood there for a moment, the wind whistling, seemingly bridging the impossible divide between Witcher and bard and the young boy stood upon the battlements, holding a weapon far too large and far too deadly for a child no older than sixteen. An impossible choice fluttered in the air, caught up in the wind like a whirling leaf. The tension of that choice was so tangible that Jaskier could nearly feel the electricity of it in the air.

Clearly, the young man could feel it as well. He was pale, and his hands shook on the release of the bow. Though he was rather backlit, Jaskier could partially see what looked like trails of sweat wending their way down the front of his red cloth shirt. Before Geralt could stop him, the bard stepped forward, dancing nimbly out of his wounded companion’s grasp.

“What’s your name, soldier?” He called up. The boy turned sharply to face him, training the crossbow on him now, but Jaskier did not flinch away. He had been held at the point of a bolt by several jealous lovers in the past, and was undeterred by threats of violence both from young boys and angry noblewomen. Looking back, that was his first mistake.

“D-Devon, master bard.”

“And how many winters have you seen, Devon? How many wars?”

“Sixteen winters. I’ve never seen a war, beyond the one we have now, the one where we fight for our lives against the lord who holds our families.”

“Then you don’t know what it’s like to kill a man,” Jaskier soldiered on, though he was barely three years older than the boy and had never killed anyone either, “You don’t know what it’s like to have someone expire at your hand, to feel their heart flutter and beat its last under your blade. And trust me, that is not something you want to have on your conscience. You don’t want to go see your mother, when she is free, and to look her in the eyes knowing you’re a man who has taken another’s life. I don’t think that’s something your mother would like to see in her son.”

“You don’t know my mother. You know nothing about me. And if I don’t stop you now, I’ll never see her again!”

“I understand that,” Jaskier raised his hands placatingly, well aware that Geralt had managed to limp over and was leaning heavily on his shoulder, breaths coming to him with increasing difficulty, “So let me propose a solution. You let us gather our weapons and leave this place. And in return, I will use my influence as the Viscount of Lettenhove and speak to the lord of the neighbouring fiefdom. I’m sure he’ll be displeased to learn that there is a tyrant and murderer who has taken over leadership of lands bordering on his own. With any luck, a small army should be here within a fortnight, ready to evict Corvin and return you to your family and your home where you belong. This is no place for a man of sixteen winters. You’re too young to perish in war.”

He faltered again then. Jaskier saw his crossbow dip, just for an instant, and hope filled his heart. With a heaving, sobbing sigh, the boy lowered the thing, letting it drop with a clunk onto the boards of the walkway.

“Get your things,” there was a wrung-out quality to his voice, “Go, speak to the lord. If you are who you say you are, perhaps things will change here. If not, it likely won’t make a difference. Either way, I’ll die here, at someone’s hand. Perhaps my own.”

The bard’s heart split into pieces for the dejected words the young man spoke, the hopelessness so evident in his slumped posture and the weapon that lay at his feet. But he couldn’t spare time for sentimentality now. Geralt was flagging, nearly his entire weight hanging off the bard’s back, and they needed to gather their weapons and Roach and get as far away from this Gods-forsaken place as possible before the Witcher succumbed to his wounds.

“Stay here,” he said firmly, turning to Geralt, “I’ll go retrieve our weapons and find Roach; there’s a corral behind the shed where she must be. Don’t move, and don’t get yourself hurt, yes?”

He helped Geralt lower himself to the grassy courtyard ground, where the Witcher slumped forward, leaning his elbows against his trembling knees. He was shivering again, though he did not feel warm and Jaskier thought it was probably more due to exhaustion than a re-emerging fever. Still, he was concerned for his companion, and wanted to get him away from here and to somewhere where he could rest and have his wounds treated as soon as possible. After everything they had been through, it was the least the bard could do. A small way to make amends for the hurt he had unintentionally caused. No matter how much Geralt denied it.

Setting off at a run, Jaskier flew across the courtyard and through the doors of the shed, skidding to a halt when he entered the building. It was dusty and dark, lit only by a few windows placed high up in the wooden walls. But the place felt like a tomb. Empty, desolate, abandoned. And yet completely filled with weapons, of every shape and size, piled against barrels and receding to the dingiest corners of the single room. They were everywhere, and there was no path by which you could access the ones in the back. It was as though whoever had placed them here had simply thrown them out, piling them on top of one another like gruesome trophies. There was an air of finality to it that made Jaskier’s blood tingle. When a weapon entered this room, neither it nor its owner was ever intended to leave. And judging by the sheer number of blades, bows and staffs here, most had not.

Shaking himself free of his shudders, Jaskier cast about for his and Geralt’s blades. It did not take him long to locate them; they were leaning up against a barrel, a bit separate from the other ones. Geralt’s swords were bundled together with a bit of red silk ribbon, on which a small note was attached. Anxiously, the bard approached. He was gruesomely reminded of the gifts he had received from his sisters long ago on Yuletide morning, beribboned and bearing tags that were addressed to him.

He undid the ribbon, and let the tag slide to the dusty floor before picking it up and reading it. The words sent a quaking, unsettled tremor to his very core.

_The swords of my only survivor. To be killed by my own hands. Preferably while they are inside him._

_A fine specimen he is, and as such is deserving of nothing less._

Jaskier nearly vomited when the implications of the spidery script hit him. He dropped the parchment as though it had burned his flesh. They needed to leave. Now.

Snatching up the blades, the bard hurtled back outside. To his great relief, the young guard from the tower had descended, and Geralt must have given him a coherent description of Roach, because the right mare was now standing in the courtyard, saddled, with Geralt clinging wearily to her mane. The bard lurched to a stop in front of them, and Geralt gave his pale cheeks and wild eyes a tired glance. The young guard stood at Roach’s bridle, and Jaskier nodded his thanks.

“Geralt, come on, we need to get out of here,” Jaskier muttered, taking hold of the Witcher’s arm and gently guiding him towards Roach’s back, “Let’s get you up, yes?”

Jaskier cupped his hands next to Roach’s stirrup in the same way he might have done if he were escorting a noble lady. Geralt, however, paid his offering no mind, gripping the cantle with one hand and a fistful of his mare’s mane with the other, swinging himself into the saddle with a pained grunt. His wrists were still clad in iron, and they were weeping delicate red tears, the fabric of Jaskier’s shirt long since soaked too thoroughly with blood to be of any use. The bard winced. His poor hands must be absolutely aching, and yet he still closed them resolutely around the reins, back only a little slumped, looking for all the world as though he was about to simply keel over and faint. When Jaskier offered up his swords, Geralt shook his head.

“Behind me. I shouldn’t…bear the weight.”

He was leaning more and more heavily against Roach’s neck with each passing second, and Jaskier thought this a wise choice. He secured the swords into the buckles that also held Geralt’s bedroll. The young soldier had run ahead, and unlatched a small door in the base of the wall. He beckoned urgently.

“Quickly! Corvin never leaves any of us alone for long; he’s always making rounds to make sure no one’s betrayed him. Please…come back soon.”

There was a pleading look in the boy’s eyes, and a good amount of swimming tears as well. Jaskier knew that if he did not make good on his promise, neither this boy nor his family would see another winter. Suddenly, a great deal more pressure fell on his shoulders than the simple urgency to get Geralt as far away from this place as possible. He had made a promise. One that would result in many peoples’ deaths if he did not follow through. His heart sped up a bit as he eased Roach’s reins from Geralt’s limp fingers and looped them over her head.

“I’ll be back,” he promised, clapping a hand onto the soldier’s shoulder, “As soon as I can. Thank you.”

The boy blinked, and suddenly a glazed, glassy expression overtook his features. It was as though he could no longer see, which made sense since his eyes had rapidly changed colour from dark brown to Corvin’s icy, pale blue. His mouth went slack and wide, and then his brows creased and words spilled out of his mouth in a monotone. In the distance, Jaskier could hear the thudding of armoured boots, but he was transfixed as Corvin’s voice suddenly issued from the young soldier’s lips, too cracked and cynical and musical for his young, weathered face.

“You thought you could escape me, did you? Very well. If you so choose, you may leave. But your choice may have unforeseen consequences. Tell me, bard, what do you choose?”

A heavy hand landed on Jaskier’s shoulder, and he looked up to see Geralt leaning dizzily against him.

“We’re going,” he mumbled, looking very ill but also as determined as the bard had ever seen him, “But we’ll be back. Count your days as numbered, bastard.”

With a surprising amount of strength for someone so weakened and wounded, Geralt grabbed Jaskier by the collar of his shirt and half lifted him to sit on Roach behind her saddle. His arm gave out before he could get the bard properly settled, but Jaskier managed to haul himself up and wrap his arms around the Witcher even as he dug his heels into Roach’s flanks. In one explosive movement, she burst forwards, kicking down the wooden door at the base of the wall. It was as though she sensed the urgency of the situation as viscerally as Jaskier did, that she knew they could not stay here a moment longer than was absolutely necessary. As soon as they flew through the splintered wall, where the sun beat down fully on their faces and the wind was not obstructed by the gates of the keep, there was an inhuman wail from the castle behind them. Jaskier turned to look back, and saw the young soldier on top of the battlements. He was staring after them, and they had not yet ridden far enough that his eyes were no longer visible. They were icy blue.

An ice similar to the unnatural blue of the boy’s eyes suddenly filled Jaskier’s heart. Roach’s gait was unsteady, and as such his head was bouncing on his shoulders too much to make out specifics. But he saw the young shoulder bend to pick something up off the battlement. Saw him raise his arms and cock his head to take aim. Terror surged in the bard’s heart.

“Geralt,” he shouted over the wind screaming in his ears and the sound of Roach’s thundering hooves, “We need to ride! Now!”

The Witcher was mostly unresponsive though; it seemed that Roach was operating mainly on rote and out of habit, having gotten her rider out of many similar situations while he was mostly unconscious. Jaskier squeezed his heels to her sides, but forgot that he was sitting behind the saddle. His heels connected hard, with the sensitive and vulnerable part between Roach’s ribcage and her hip bone. The one part of her body where she was unprotected. Where a predator would always attack.

She whinnied, a high-pitched squeal, and wheeled on the spot, coming to a dead halt. Jaskier managed to wrap his arms around Geralt and keep both of them in the saddle, but it was too late. Turned to the side, the amount of vulnerable space into which the soldier could shoot his crossbow bolts had nearly tripled. There was a distant twang. A whooshing sound. And a dull thunk as something came into contact with Roach’s side, the force of it making her sidestep a bit. Fearfully, eyes rolling, she whinnied again and bolted, legs thundering as she tore across the open field. At first, Jaskier thought she had been hit, and that the burst of speed was simply the final adrenaline before she fell. And then he saw where the bolt had embedded itself.

“Gods, Geralt,” he called, shaking the Witcher a bit in his grip, “Geralt, can you hear me?”

There was a weak groan, which Jaskier supposed was better than nothing. At least when one had a bolt sticking out of one’s knee. The thing was long and cruel, and had been shot so powerfully that it had completely pierced Geralt’s leg and embedded itself in the leather of Roach’s saddle, essentially pinning him onto the horse. One pale, trembling hand was clenched around the wound, gripping at his knee. Bright blood painted his skin, and his black pants were soaked with it.

“Alright,” Jaskier muttered, more to himself, his heart pounding furiously, “We just have to get away from here. Just hold on, and we’ll get somewhere safe, and then you can get patched up and have a good long rest. It’ll be like it never happened; you’ll see.”

He chose to ignore the resurgence of his guilt for the time being. If he hadn’t made the idiotic choice to kick Roach in such a sensitive place, she never would have turned. And while he would still be wounded, Geralt wouldn’t be in danger of bleeding out on her back as they galloped away across the countryside.

As they rode further away, though, the guilt began to vanish on its own. It was as though a fog was lifting from Jaskier’s mind, and for the first time in days he could see his own actions and their effect on events clearly. If he had not urged Roach on, likely one of them would have been shot anyways. Corvin was an elf, and even when working through the bodies of others he had exceptional reflexes and aim. There was nothing the bard could have done to stop him.

Shaking himself of his confusion and newly-unfogged mind, Jaskier focused all his energy on keeping Geralt on the horse. They had left the field around the keep behind, and were now galloping up a fairly steep incline in a pine forest. Soft needles crunched under Roach’s hooves, and the whole place felt blanketed in soft peace, the gentle, hot smell of nature and the sweet chirping of birds filling the air. It was strange, the bard thought, how close such a peaceful place could be to a man and a keep filled with so much violence. How quickly the world was able to change, to reclaim its beauty and gentleness.

Still, as beautiful and calm as it was, they could not stop here. It was too close to Corvin, and Geralt needed a proper place to rest. Somewhere with a real bed that could provide them with hot water and a blacksmith to remove the shackles from the Witcher’s wrists. Somewhere they could rest and recover in peace, before they made good on Geralt’s promise to return to Errowhal and gut Corvin alive.

So, they rode on. Staying away from the main roads but always riding in parallel with them, Jaskier knew that sooner or later they would arrive at a settlement. The afternoon drew on into evening, which then gave over to the crepuscular glow of sunset, and finally night. Geralt had fallen into a fitful sleep, though his brows were drawn tightly together, and every time Roach took a particularly hard step or stumbled, he would groan, and a shackled hand would reach out to clutch at his leg. Jaskier had to hold his hand back, for fear he would accidentally knock against the bolt and cause worse bleeding than there already was. A soft patter, like that of raindrops, followed them as Geralt’s lifeblood slowly oozed off the toe of his boot and onto the ground.

As the darkness wore on, Geralt began to rouse a little more, though he was very disoriented. Clearly, the pain of his wounds and staying on Roach’s back was becoming too much for him. They needed to find a place to stop and rest, and soon.

“Hush, just a little longer now,” Jaskier readjusted his grip on Geralt’s wrist, concerned that he had grown too weak to even put up much of a fight, “We’ll get you somewhere where you can rest, I promise.”

Roach was trotting now, frothing at the mouth from her long period of galloping, and Jaskier was glad he had slowed her. Geralt’s voice was so faint that he likely would not have heard the Witcher if they had been going any faster.

“Fuck…’m bleeding.”

“I know,” Jaskier said with a sad, bitter little laugh, “We’ll get you patched up soon, alright? I can’t afford to take that bolt out of you until I know you’re not going to bleed to death the moment I do. And we can get those cuffs off as well.”

“Mhmm.” It was more a sigh than a verbal acknowledgement, but at this point Jaskier would take what he could get. He kicked Roach into a bit of a faster trot, ignoring when Geralt shifted his head in distress. Their need to stop was growing ever more urgent by the moment. He feared the Witcher would not survive the blood loss if Jaskier couldn’t suture his leg soon. Impervious as Geralt appeared to be when it came to healing, even mutants needed blood pumping through their veins.

There was a full moon hanging low in the sky above them, and Jaskier was becoming more and more grateful for its blue light as they wound their way around trees and dense thickets. Without its light to guide him, he would have been hopelessly lost, and likely gotten them entangled in brambles hours ago. It did, however, cast eerie shadows on the ground. Every spindly branch was a trembling hand extending to snag their tattered clothes, every small shrub a soldier waiting to pounce. The silence was overwhelming, pressing on Jaskier’s eardrums, and though the moon lit their way it also felt like a great, omnipotent, lidless eye, staring down upon them from the heavens. Seeing all, yet doing nothing to intervene. The bard had never felt more exposed.

He had nearly nodded off a dozen times when Roach finally stopped, by the shores of a lake. At some point, the foothills of Velen had turned to mountains, and this lake was completely enclosed by them. The moon cast a watery reflection on the surface of the water, and there was a gentle lapping as the waves smacked delicately against the stony shoreline. Rousing himself, the bard nearly shouted in relief.

“Geralt,” he shook the Witcher’s shoulder, temporarily having forgotten that the man had not been coherent in hours, “Look! There’s lights!”

Indeed, there were gentle, yellow lights glimmering on the surface of the water as well, just a little to the left of the moonlit streak, along the shoreline. Jaskier thought he had never seen a town more inviting, though a small voice in the back of his mind urged caution. After all, the last time he had found a town inviting, it had nearly caused both his and Geralt’s deaths.

The Witcher had shifted a bit at his words, and opened a bleary eye. He was shivering, but his fever had not returned, and Jaskier thought it was mostly the blood loss from his leg causing the tremors. His pants and the saddle, as well as a good deal of Roach’s flank, were completely soaked red.

“Where’r we?” He slurred, leaning back into Jaskier. The bard wrapped his arms about Geralt’s waist, wishing they had managed to come across some cloaks before they had fled. In only his black shirt and pants, the Witcher was clearly suffering more than he might have otherwise.

“I don’t know,” he said gently, “But I think it’s time we stopped for the night, don’t you? Perhaps there’s somewhere we can rest in town, get you feeling a bit better?”

It was a testament to how poorly Geralt was feeling that Jaskier was still on Roach after making such a statement. A few weeks ago, such a gentle tone of voice accompanied by kind words would have earned him a solid punch in the gut, if not being left alone in some Gods-forsaken campsite in the midst of the wilderness. As it was, Geralt just sighed with relief, slumping back even more.

“Any chance…of a bath?”

“Perhaps. You’re all over blood and gore. But I’m not sure your wounds will survive you getting in a bath at the moment. Let’s give it a bit until I’ve got you stitched up, alright?”

“Hmm…s’cold.”

“Losing half your blood will have that effect.”

Having lost whatever momentary train of thought he might have had, Geralt closed his eyes again, and appeared to fall back into a pained sleep. He had stopped trying to reach out and grip the wound in his leg hours ago, and Jaskier wondered if it still pained him, or if it had simply gone numb. Neither prospect offered him a good deal of optimism.

At their current pace, the bard estimated it would take them another hour to work their way along the stone beach to the village, so he quickly turned Roach in the appropriate direction and urged her into a fast trot. They were losing time with every drop of Geralt’s blood that plopped wetly onto the smooth stones beneath them.

Under different circumstances, it would have been a beautiful ride. To distract himself, Jaskier tried to compose some verse as they went along, eyes fixed on the glittering moon that shone like a great lamp over the lake. He felt less naked now that the shadows made by the moon’s light no longer reached out to grasp at them. Under his breath, he tried different passages, feeling the way they formed on his lips and trying them on for a ballad.

_A chill light_

_Both distant and near_

_Both cold and warm_

_From so far, and yet glimmering so close_

_She offers protection from the creeping shadows_

_And yet she is their creator_

_The night is far spent, the day is at hand_

_She will leave her shadows to the sun_

It was a rough draft, with no real rhyme and no theme, just a reflection of the first words that came into Jaskier’s tired mind. But he filed it away for later, when Geralt was well, so he could describe to the Witcher the beauty of the night he had missed. After days (or weeks) below the ground, Jaskier had never felt more inclined to appreciate the beauty of every little piece of the outside world, from the fresh air to the gently lapping lake.

It seemed like hours and yet no time at all before they came upon the village. Jaskier tugged gently at Roach’s reins, reaching around Geralt’s limp frame to give her a pat on the neck. He nearly felt like sobbing with relief, though he knew there were still many hours of work yet ahead of him.

The village was of the type frequently found near to mountain lakes; partially built on the shore, but with a good deal of the houses also built on legs that stood up from the water. A maze of canals and boardwalks connected them to each other and to the mainland. Even at this time in the morning, people were wandering about, preparing for the next morning’s market and rubbing at bleary eyes as they wandered out to milk the cows. All of them stopped when Roach passed by, mouths hanging open, sparks of fear flitting in their eyes.

“Pardon,” Jaskier asked in his most gentlemanly voice, knowing well that both he and Geralt looked a fright, “Would you be able to point us in the direction of an inn?”

The woman he had spoken to stared for a moment, jaw working but no sounds escaping her lips. The bucket she was holding clattered in her shaking hands, before she appeared to pull herself together and pointed to a tall building, built half on stake on the lake, but also with a foundation on the shore. It was by far one of the largest buildings in the town, with gabled windows and exposed, dark beams amidst the brightness of whitewashed walls. A few windows shone with the warm glow of a late-night fire. Nodding his thanks, Jaskier turned Roach towards the place.

The last thing Geralt remembered was that he had been very cold. Far too cold for a balmy fall evening. Blearily, he wondered what had happened to him, and how he had come to be in such a shivering, miserable state. And then he realized that he was no longer quite so frozen. His fingers, previously numb, moved a little when he tried to clench them. They were wrapped around something soft.

“What…” Geralt trailed off when he realized his mouth felt as though it was stuffed full of cotton. Footsteps approached, and someone hushed him. Something warm wiped across his shoulders.

“Shh. Just stay still. I’m just cleaning off a bit of the blood.”

Now that he thought about it, Geralt could feel the blood crusting all over him. It was caked on, and made his skin hurt. He forced his eyes open, blinking a few times at the watery light of a fire, and someone’s pale, worried face swimming before his bleary eyes. He cast what he hoped was a questioning gaze; his lips trembled weakly at every attempt he made to form words.

“I’ve found a place for us in an inn, but you’re in a bad way, Geralt,” it was Jaskier’s voice that spoke to him, and he found himself strangely relieved at the presence of the bard, “I haven’t tried to take out the bolt in your leg yet, but I’ll have to soon. I think it’s shattered your knee. Don’t move your leg, alright?”

“Hmm.”

Geralt didn’t think he could move either leg, injured or otherwise. His whole body felt heavy and weak and so very tired. He could do with a bath, and some rest in a warm bed. Oddly enough, though, he didn’t feel any pain. Perhaps his body was simply at capacity. He sighed and sank back weakly against the pillows, fingers tugging weakly at the blanket. He was suddenly very cold again.

Jaskier reached over and eased the quilt out of his shaky hands, pulling it up to his chin.

“You’re developing a bit of a fever again, from the shock, I think. Once I’ve stitched up your leg, I’ll see if we can’t get some bricks to heat in the fire, and we’ll get you warmed again.”

That sounded wonderful, Geralt reflected. Though there was a part of his brain that was adamant that such help should not be accepted, that a helpless Witcher might as well be a dead one, but the larger part of him didn’t care. His legs were spasming a bit now, beyond his control, muscles firing randomly. He gritted his teeth as the pain flared up again, white hot, bringing inadvertent tears to his eyes. Jaskier rustled around, and he found something being held to his lips.

“It’s laudanum, for the pain. If I’m going to take that bolt out of you, I’d rather do it while you’re unconscious. You seemed to be in enough agony when I cut it out of Roach’s saddle.”

“No…,” Geralt tried to find the words to describe what he actually needed, but came up blank, “That’ll…make me tired.”

“Yes. That is rather the hope.”

The Witcher clenched his fists in the quilt, hands already whitened from blood loss turning another shade paler. He couldn’t let his guard down. Not when Corvin could still be toying with them, reeling them back in to one of his sick games. He trembled.

“Just…no.”

Now that Geralt’s eyes had cleared up a bit, he could see the doubtful expression on Jaskier’s face. For a moment, he feared the bard would simply plug his nose and force him to swallow the laudanum anyways, but luckily, he simply turned away and set down the vial with a gentle tinkling of glassware.

“…Alright. But…this will hurt. And – oh, Geralt, I so badly don’t want to hurt you.” There was an aching tone to the bard’s words, made more poignant in the pauses that normally never punctuated his speech.

“Do it.” Geralt gritted out. He was becoming very dizzy, very tired, but he couldn’t sleep, not yet. He wrenched his eyes open and pressed his fingers into one of his wounded wrists in an effort to keep himself conscious. Gentle hands separate the contact, and the Witcher caught a sadness in Jaskier’s eyes.

“Don’t do that,” the bard admonished gently, “It won’t do you any good. We’re safe here, and your body needs to rest. You’ve been through hell, Geralt. There’s no shame in that.”

Geralt fought the pressure on his wrists and the sleep pulling at his eyes. There was pain firing in spastic bursts through his leg, which was twitching and kicking weakly of its own volition. His neck and wrists ached, and there was another pain as well, further down his leg, eclipsed completely by the white-hot agony of his knee. He was so exhausted. Jaskier was running a gentle hand through his sweaty hair, hushing him, telling him to just rest.

Eventually, after what could have been minutes or hours of fighting it, he complied.

As soon as Geralt had dropped off into what might have been either complete unconsciousness or the restful sleep he so desperately needed, Jaskier slumped back and cradled his face in his hands. He was shaking all over, a combination of adrenaline and fear and exhaustion and sheer sadness at the whole situation. He wanted to sob. A small tear escaped the corner of his eye, and he brushed it away furiously. There was nothing _wrong_ with him. No reason for him to feel this way. It was pure, disappointing weakness.

Struggling to set his fears aside, Jaskier stared at the bottle of laudanum he had set back on the small wooden table near the bed. He wrung his hands. The Witcher had asked him, specifically, not to drug him. And there had been something akin to fear in his bleary eyes when he had asked for it. Having been afforded such open trust, Jaskier was frightened to break it. Especially with Geralt, who did not seem to trust easily or seem willing to regain trust once it had been broken. On the other hand, he needed to cut the bolt away from the Witcher’s leg. He was bleeding, more sluggishly now, but still enough to cause significant damage if it was not staunched. And that was not even considering the damage to the knee underneath. While the bard had been tutored in the healing arts while he was still living in Lettenhove, it had been a long time, and he feared there was damage beyond what he was capable of fixing.

“Well,” he muttered to himself, “It won’t help anyone to sit about all night agonizing about it.”

Jaskier knew he couldn’t bring himself to break trust so newly earned, no matter how much he might wish to. It went against his very nature. Grimacing, he extracted the meagre healing supplies he carried, and also ran his fingers over Geralt’s more extensive collected. It was a frightful thought, wondering how many times the Witcher had used these on himself, when there was no one around to help him. Jaskier turned quickly back to the offending knee, banishing the thoughts from his mind.

Luckily, the bolt had not been shot dead through the centre of the knee. Such an injury would have meant a complete bisection of the tendon and the potential loss of Geralt’s leg, Witcher healing or no. As it was, and from Jaskier’s tentative examination of the swollen limb, he determined that the bolt had most likely shattered shin bone, having pierced his leg a bit lower down. The bard was also concerned about the lower tendon that attached Geralt’s kneecap. It could easily have been bisected as well, rendering the Witcher’s leg useless for the near future. He sighed. There was very little that he could do for such an extensive wound besides remove the weapon and try to get Geralt to rest it as much as possible until it could bear weight again. He sensed that their stay at this particular inn would be a prolonged one, and he hoped that Corvin hadn’t been able to track them. There was no chance that the Witcher would be able to ride Roach in his current condition.

After having determined that the bolt had not severed any major blood vessels, Jaskier found a small saw, the one Geralt usually used for cutting smaller branches for fire when they had been on the road. Trying to stabilize the shaft of the bolt as best he could, he sawed off the protruding end piece, leaving only the bit that was embedded within Geralt’s leg behind. The Witcher barely stirred throughout the whole thing, and Jaskier was becoming more and more concerned that he had fallen into a rest more to do with injury than simply a deep sleep.

Now that the bolt had been pared down to just the part injuring the knee, Jaskier wrapped both his hands about it, and began to slowly inch it outwards, alert for the slightest movement that might suggest a wounded vessel or artery was beginning to spurt blood. Geralt did wince then, his leg spasming and his hands clenching in the sheets. Jaskier had to move to sit nearly on top of him to keep him from jerking off the bed. His eyes squeezed shut with pain.

“Hush, I’m just removing the bolt,” Jaskier tried to hide the tremulous note in his voice; it caused him near physical pain to see Geralt like this, “Just stay still, it’ll stop hurting soon, please just try to stay still.”

Unsurprisingly, Geralt didn’t answer, the only sound passing through his lips being a weak exhale, nearly a trembling moan but not quite strong enough. Stopping for a moment with the bolt half out of the Witcher’s knee, Jaskier brushed back some hair from his sweaty forehead. It was dripping into the pillow, and there was some combination of snot and drool running down the side of his face as well. Sympathetically, the bard wiped it away with the sleeve of his once-fine doublet.

“You’re doing so well. I’m nearly finished, I’m sorry it hurts so much. Shall we perhaps try the laudanum?”

Jaskier hadn’t expected an answer to that either, knowing that Geralt was probably still unconscious, roused only by the extreme pain of the bard removing what was essentially an enormous splinter from his knee. He started when Geralt nodded, a shaking thing, barely there.

“You’re sure? You just told me you didn’t want it, and I could never forgive myself if I drugged you against your will.”

Another nod. A bit stronger this time as well. Geralt’s hands were fisting weakly in the sheets, and the muscles in his jaw were completely tight and locked, as though they were all that was standing between him letting out a cry of pain. The thought nearly broke Jaskier’s heart, and he leaned over to the side table, retrieving the tiny vial.

“Just open your mouth for a moment, and then you can go to sleep, yes?”

Geralt’s mouth had fallen open anyways; he was breathing spastically, chest rising and falling in an uneven staccato. Jaskier poured two drops between his teeth, unsure of how to dose a Witcher, but not willing to exceed what he would have used for a normal man of Geralt’s size. Nearly immediately, the Witcher slumped, relaxed, and Jaskier watched as the tension melted from his body as the opiate began to take effect. He sank back into the sheets and pillows, too weak to fight the drug, and within moments he was gone.

Turning away from his friend’s sweaty, pale countenance, Jaskier resumed his work trying to remove the bolt. It was nearly halfway extracted, but the bard knew that pieces had probably splintered off inside Geralt’s leg, and he would need to remove all of them if he wanted to stave off infection. It was tedious work, but he was glad at least that the Witcher’s muscles were no longer spasming and rebelling under his grip. With the fire crackling gently in the background, and the eerie stillness that had overtaken the room, it felt nearly peaceful. When Jaskier tried to distance himself from his grisly task, he could even relax a bit. It felt like the first time his mind had stopped whirling frantically in days.

It felt like days until the bolt finally came free, along with a spurt of partially clotted blood. Stumbling back a bit, Jaskier was immediately relieved he had had the presence of mind to lay out a towel on the bed before he had begun. The innkeep had seemed like a nice enough man, but he still did not doubt that he would force them to pay for the bloodstains and damage they inflicted upon his room. And with them already looking at a long stay, the less extraneous expenses they incurred, the better.

Unfortunately, when the clotted blood pulled free with the bolt, it incurred a sudden and enormous onslaught of bleeding. Cursing, Jaskier reached for a small clay pot, in which he knew was kept a combination of witch hazel and kaolin clay. He would never be able to extract the individual slivers leftover from the bolt with Geralt’s knee in such a bloody state, and the Witcher had lost far too much blood already during their moonlit ride. He applied the salve with reckless abandon, trying not to wince when he ended up wrist-deep in Geralt’s knee, feeling about for any broken vessels he could seal.

Finally, the bleeding mostly stopped, reduced to a mere trickle that inched in a small stream down Geralt’s leg and onto the blood-soaked towel. Jaskier ran a shaky hand over his forehead and took several deep breaths, feeling miserably tired and very shaken. He couldn’t recall the last time he had slept properly.

“Alright,” he muttered to himself, “Nearly done for tonight. I just need to get this stitched up and then I can bandage the other wounds and rest. Nearly there, bard.”

Jaskier nearly snorted when he realized he had adopted calling himself the same name that Geralt called him by. At this point, he wondered if it was a sign of irritated resignation or gradual endearment.


	6. A Haven Amidst Chaos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally having made it to somewhere moderately safe, Geralt and Jaskier take time to heal and regain their bearings. Feelings are felt. Fluff abounds. The usual.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter kind of crazy got away with me in terms of the word count, but I figured you guys wouldn't mind too much (nothing is a greater surprise than an ultra-long chapter as an early holiday gift, says this humble author). This chapter is literal, pure fluff, and it completely self-serving. However, I hope you guys enjoy as well.
> 
> Thank you all from the bottom of my heart for commenting on and leaving kudos on this story. I shout into the void of the internet for all of you <3
> 
> CW: Mention of bodily functions, not dwelled upon at all.

When Geralt next awoke, he was terribly, infuriatingly groggy. He found he couldn’t even muster the energy to try to keep his eyes open, and there was the fuzziness in his head and limbs that could only be associated with being drugged. He felt heavy all over, unable to move and extremely hot; feverish. It was a familiar feeling, one he associated with the pain and doubt and crushing resignation of Corvin’s dungeons. He had last been fevered there, and he had been drugged there as well. There were vague memories flitting about in his skull of a moonlit ride, of managing to mount Roach and somehow being wounded as they had escaped the keep. But he had been feeling better when all that had happened, if only marginally. And he had definitely not been under the influence of whatever hallucinogenic was ravaging his system now. A pang of fear pierced his buzzing chest. Their escape must have been nothing more than a fever dream; a manipulation of his mind by Corvin’s clever magics and potions. They had not made it out of the castle. In fact, Geralt was beginning to wonder if everything after he had breathed in the poison fog in that horrible room with the low ceiling and the glittering, malicious presence had been nothing more than a hallucination. Perhaps Corvin had already killed Jaskier, and was simply waiting on Geralt’s slow and inevitable demise so he could cut him open. The Witcher hoped he wouldn’t be vivisected. One time was more than enough, and he had already suffered that during the Trials.

Wincing, he tried to move his arms a bit, just to get a sense of where he had ended up, but they were held fast. It didn’t feel like the dimeritium cuffs, but there was definitely something wrapped about his wrists. Whatever it was, it was gentler than the accursed metal, but still kept him from moving and sent spikes of pain shooting through his arms. Aching resignation shot through him again. Jaskier would never have tied him down. There was no chance that his strange, fleeting memories of escape could be true.

Geralt sank back into himself after that. His mind was too fuzzy to focus, and he was beginning to feel very tired, the desire to go back to sleep overtaking him. Not that there was any reason for him to rest and recover his strength. There was no chance of making it out of this hellhole alive.

He floated like that. Fevered and feeling very sick. Sometimes his body seemed to jerk and pull of its own accord, yanking against whatever was binding down his sore wrists. There was agony in his entire right leg, from the knee right down to the ankle, and in one of his more lucid moments Geralt thought it was very strange that he didn’t remember hurting his knee. For the most part, though, he was too confused to think much. His thoughts ebbed and flowed like the Skelligan tides, pooling occasionally and then releasing back into swirling pits of fragmented dreams. Sometimes he would awaken, hot and panting, and once he opened his eyes, but it was all too bright and too close, and the flickering of distant firelight only served to remind him that he had failed, and that Jaskier was probably dead.

It must have been some time later that Geralt woke up to find himself shivering. His teeth chattered so hard that his jaw ached from trying to steady himself, and his fists clenched as tightly as they could with the pain of his wounded wrists. When he winced and shuddered, though, something strange happened. There was movement in the room, a shifting in the air that prickled against Geralt’s too-cold skin and sent even more spasms ricocheting through his whole body. Alarmed and weakened, he sank back, expecting more drugs or pain or some new monster for him to face. He could almost hear Corvin’s soft, supple voice slipping inside his mind like some sort of insidious leech. But the voice and the pain never came.

“Hush now,” a gentle voice that was decidedly _not_ Corvin and most definitely Jaskier spoke musically above him, and there was a gentle, rhythmic rubbing motion on his bare chest, “Your fever is very high. Just relax. It’ll all be over soon.”

Perhaps the last sentence should have alarmed Geralt, but the hand was warm, and its heat suffused his whole body with a feeling of relaxation and safety. He nearly sighed with relief when a warm quilt was pulled up over his bare body, tucked in snugly around his shaking form. It did little to quell the shivers, but the feeling of it was comforting. Geralt ached to know it was all an illusion; he so very badly wanted this to be real. Just once. He had spent many a night alone and fevered in the wilds or abandoned in some dark dungeon. But this, the gentleness and kindness, was entirely new, even to his dreams. Corvin had quite a perceptive eye, to extract from his mind desires he had barely even known he had.

“Are you awake?” The sweet musical voice was continuing on, though Geralt could barely muster the energy to parse words from meaningless sound. He tried to grunt, but it came out more as a weak whimper, and he felt his cheeks colour. Though it would hardly be noticeable; they were already flushed from fever.

“Oh. That would be a yes. I’m so sorry, I wish you weren’t awake for any of this. You’re in such a terrible state. I’ve cleaned you up as best I can, but with the wounds you have, it was only to be expected that you’d spike a fever again, if only from the sheer shock of it all. The sooner you can get back to sleep, the sooner you’ll feel better. I’m afraid we’re all out of laudanum, or I’d give you some more to help you on your way.”

The hand was back again, but it was resting on Geralt’s forehead again. Sometime in the span of the person speaking, he had grown very hot, but his wrists were still restrained and his weakened muscles spasming beyond his control. He panted, trying to shift his torso to get the blankets nudged down a bit again, but was unsuccessful. The person pulled them down for him and tucked them about his waist.

“I half think the only thing holding your damn leg together is how tightly I’ve tucked you into these blankets,” the person said with a note of regret, “So we’ll leave them be for the moment, yes? Besides, I can’t go letting you take a chill after all you’ve been through already.”

Ah. So there was something wrong with his leg. That explained the damnable pain, at least. This must be a very complex illusion, to conjure up both such a realistic person, a person with _Jaskier’s_ voice, as well as such intense pain when he could not recall being wounded in that area. Corvin must be stronger with chaos than the average elf. Though it wouldn’t matter in the end. Strong with chaos or not, Geralt was too weak to escape this strange and complex lattice of dreams and pain that had been created for him. He would die, somehow, by the elf’s hand. It was only a matter of time.

Until that time came, though, Geralt was rather content in this particular hallucination. He was sure it would have some sort of violent, unpleasant end; Corvin would never be kind enough to allow him peace without pain. But while it was still good, Geralt wanted to enjoy it. It was probably the only time he would ever experience such tenderness, now that his life was nearly over. If he really allowed his mind to drift, he could almost imagine that it was really Jaskier there, wiping the sweat off his forehead and hushing him when the fever and pain made him lose even the most basic control of his limbs. A calloused hand stroked his own, and it felt warm and real. Geralt sighed. He could nearly allow himself to sleep, like this. And it felt as though it had been months since he had last rested properly. He shivered, chilled again.

“That’s it,” the person-who-sounded-like-Jaskier-but-couldn’t-be crooned softly, “Just go back to sleep. There’s nothing for you to worry about right now except resting and getting well again.”  
  


If only that were true. But there was no point in agonizing over it now, when he was restrained and too weak to move even if he hadn’t been. Might as well enjoy the few comforts that were left to him on this mortal plane. Corvin had managed to conjure up the illusion of a passable bed, and Geralt sank back into it, turning his cheek to a cooler spot on the pillow. He had gone from being unbearably cold in the span of a few seconds, and the quick change had left his body sweaty and shaky and reeling. The muscles of his wounded leg were still spasming and clenching, and he could feel something hot and sticky trailing down the side of his knee, along with the tight pull of stitches. Why Corvin would bother to stitch him up before killing him, Geralt couldn’t fathom. Perhaps it was part of the illusion, to make it more painful. It seemed on par with what the elf might conjure up.

The person with Jaskier’s voice was humming softly now, muttering under his breath, and there were hands as gentle and fleeting as dandelion seeds brushing against the aching portion of his knee. The person muttered something about him bleeding again, but Geralt was too close to sleep to make an effort to understand. His thoughts became unanchored, unable to find mooring in the fevered sea of his mind, and after what could have been minutes or hours, he finally fell into a fitful sleep.

He knew that upon his awakening, this illusion would be gone, replaced by nothing but the final moments of his life.

Jaskier had nearly nodded off when Geralt began to shift and rouse. He bit back a curse, feeling a bolt of guilt pass through his heart. That he should be bemoaning losing a few hours of sleep when the Witcher was so clearly in the depths of misery seemed beyond ungrateful. He blinked his heavy eyelids all the way open, trying to keep them from sagging shut again as he watched Geralt twist in the large bed, chest soaked with sweat and blood, brows pinched together in an expression that the bard could only describe as one of agony.

When he had finished tending the Witcher’s wounds hours earlier, Geralt had been spasming so badly with the pain and the general loss of control of his muscles that Jaskier had had to secure his wrists to the edge of the bed, for fear that he would reopen the wounds on his neck and arms. He had already lost so much blood; that was a risk the bard had been unwilling to take. But now, watching the way his brow contorted with confusion and fear when he found he could not move his arms towards himself, a small pang of guilt once again burst into bloom in Jaskier’s chest. Geralt had spent enough time restrained in the last several days. But he couldn’t simply let his friend bleed out and die.

Unwilling to completely wake Geralt and disturb the rest he so desperately needed, Jaskier simply sat and watched over him for a while, hoping he would settle and drift back off to sleep. For a moment, it seemed he might. The tensed muscles relaxed and stopping fighting the jerking motions made by healing wounds. His breaths nearly evened out. But then, quite suddenly, Geralt began to shiver violently, so violently that his teeth chattered together and he began to strain and twist all over again, hands grasping tightly at the quilt that Jaskier had pulled down when he had seemed uncomfortably hot earlier. Taking mercy, the bard leaned over and pulled the quilt up over his quivering chest, tucking it gently around his sides the way he remembered a favourite aunt of his doing long ago when he had been a child ill with the pox. Geralt was probably too sick to care about this maternal gesture, and it brought Jaskier comfort to know that he was trying his best to keep his friend comfortable and secure through the worst of his reappearing fever.

“Hush now,” he spoke in a lilting tone, trying to use spoken words as a sort of lullaby, “Your fever is very high. Just relax. It’ll all be over soon.”

As he spoke, Jaskier gently rubbed his hand over a part of Geralt’s chest that wasn’t quite as bruised, wondering if perhaps it would offer some comfort, or a grounding sensation. The bard knew well what it was like to feel as though you were floating thousands of miles above the ground, carried away by fever and illness.

He spoke a little more after that, admonishing Geralt for pushing away the blankets and apologizing that he was awake to feel any of this at all. Eventually the Witcher seemed to slip back into a fitful rest again. He had seemed frightened and disoriented, though he had barely been wakeful and had never opened his eyes. It made Jaskier’s heart sore, and he leaned back with an exhausted gasp. He was trembling from hunger and the effort of keeping himself awake for so many hours. The innkeep had sent them upstairs with some freshly baked bread and a sympathetic expression, telling the bard that if he had need of anything he had only to ask. The village had no healer, the man had said, but he had reassured Jaskier that they would find no ill will here. Witchers were welcome in these parts; the room had even been offered to them for a discounted rate. Jaskier was grateful that they had stumbled across such a tolerant place in a world filled with so much hatred.

Eventually, his eyes began to drift shut of their own accord. Geralt had not moved for a while now; his fever still burning bright but apparently having pulled him too deeply into illness for him to even stir. Jaskier propped his aching feet up against the bed, wiggling his toes in their dirty socks to try to work out some of the knots in the muscles. The fire crackled merrily in the grate, and with barely a second thought to his filthy clothes and stinking hair, the bard pulled up a spare blanket from the end of the bed, covered himself, and drifted off into a deep, immovable rest.

He woke with a start later that night. Or it might have been night; Jaskier had not bothered himself with opening the drapes since they had arrived, having been so focused on making sure Geralt didn’t bleed out and die.

Bolting upright so suddenly he nearly tipped the chair he had been sleeping in over, Jaskier scrambled for purchase on reality. In the darkness, he had believed momentarily that he was still in Corvin’s dark dungeon, and for a slight second he thought he had caught the elf’s face in the corner of his eye, leering down upon him. He wrapped his arms around his knees, trying to calm his heaving breaths, heart racing.

“Just a dream,” he murmured to himself, rocking back and forth, “We’re out, we’re safe. He can’t be here.”

As he spoke, Jaskier became aware of what had actually roused him from his slumber. Geralt appeared to be awake, or at least more present than he had been since they had escaped the keep. His eyes were squeezed shut, and shaky fingers were working their way along the colourful quilt, exploring his damaged leg.

“Geralt?” Jaskier whispered, not wanting to wake the Witcher if he was just dreaming, “Are you alright?”

He pressed a hand ever so gently to the man’s forehead, feeling that it was much cooler than it had been the last time he had bothered to check. The shock of the wounds must be wearing off, and Jaskier was extremely grateful. So many fevers in such a short span of time would have killed an ordinary man, and the bard wasn’t convinced that Geralt had been that far off from death himself. His skin was still deathly pale, and the red rings around his wrists where Jaskier had managed to wrench away the manacles with a lockpick looked absolutely agonizing.

“Hmm.” His voice was terribly weak, but it was there. He swallowed a few times and licked his lips, and the bard lunged over to a pitcher that had been sent up for them by the innkeep the night before. Pouring some water, he gently held the cup to Geralt’s lips, ignoring when most of it spilled down his chin and pooled on his bruised chest. He wiped it away with the back of his shirtsleeve, making no comment, though Geralt grimaced a bit and shivered. His hands plucked shakily at the blankets, though they were still bound to the bedframe and he couldn’t get them to move very far.

“Cold? I think your fever’s broken, so your body is probably trying to get itself back into equilibrium again. I heated a stone in the fire for you, for the next time you woke.”

Geralt’s injured leg twitched and spasmed a bit, and he grimaced and finally managed to open his eyes the merest bit, though his brow immediately creased, and he snapped them back shut. A breath of pain escaped his lips, and Jaskier smoothed back his hair, trying to ease what he knew from experience with laudanum use was probably an instant headache.

“Just keep your eyes shut for now; there’s no point in causing yourself pain when you won’t be getting out of bed for a while anyways. Just give me a moment, and I’ll go get that stone to warm you a bit.”

With a gentle squeeze on the Witcher’s bound hand, Jaskier slipped his fingers free and went to extract the glowing stone from the small wood-burning stove in the corner of the room with a pair of tongs. Dropping it into the singed skin bag intended to insulate it, the bard tucked it down by Geralt’s feet, allowing himself a small smile as the Witcher sighed with relief and shifted a bit under the covers, getting more comfortable.

“Better?”

“Mhmm. Wh-what happened?” Geralt’s words were heavy and faint all at once, trickling like molasses over his tongue. Jaskier had to lean in to hear him, and a bit of worry flashed through his mind when he saw how confused the Witcher looked.

“We left Corvin’s castle. While we were riding away, he took possession of a young boy’s body and shot you in the knee from the battlements. I rode with you as far as I could, and then found an inn where I could get you patched up and where we could rest for a while.”

Geralt’s brow creased in confusion again, though his breathing was becoming heavier and he looked as though he was about to fall asleep again.

“Why’m I…like…this?” Words were clearly failing him, and he lifted one of his bound wrists weakly, pulling at the soft bits of bandage that Jaskier had used to secure him to the bed.

“You were having spasms, probably from all the damage that bastard did to your arms with the dimeritium. I thought it would be best to keep you from hurting yourself more while you weren’t aware of what you were doing. I…can take them off now. If you feel up to it.”

Geralt looked very pale, and when he clenched his fists and pulled at the bindings his pallor only increased. Sweat beaded on his brow, and Jaskier hurried to untie the bandages. After spending so many days with his wrists in irons, it was no surprise that being restrained even now that they were relatively safe was causing Geralt a good measure of distress. Gently, Jaskier ran his fingers over the raw skin and settled the Witcher’s wrists comfortably atop the quilt.

“Your poor hands must be aching horribly. I’ll get some new bandages and some salve for the wounds, alright? The innkeep left us some different remedies for pain.”

Though he seemed most of the way asleep again, Geralt nodded. He managed to keep himself partially awake while Jaskier gently guided the bandages around his wrists, cradling them before situating them comfortably on top of the quilt again. When Jaskier was nearing the end of wrapping his right wrist, he even wrenched his eyes open a crack, and apparently discovering that the light was not quite so offensive as it had been, pulled them open the rest of the way, blinking sleepily.

“There you are,” Jaskier offered up a small smile as he settled the newly wrapped wrist back down on the bed, “You look exhausted, but if you’d like I can give your hair a wash before you go back to sleep. No baths quite yet, I’m afraid. Those stitches in your leg are barely holding as it is, and I think you’d be too weak to keep from drowning anyways.”

“That’d be…good.”

“I thought you might like that. You look cold, and your hair is all full of blood. Give me a moment to get the water off the stove, and I’ll see what I can do, yes?”

Jaskier returned a moment later with a bowl of warm water and a few fluffy white towels, also on loan from the innkeep. He had been surprised at how willing the man was, not only to host the two of them despite their deplorable state, but to give them aid however he was able. After insisting that the blood and sweat on his fine sheets was no issue, he had also brought them up fresh towels and clean clothes, as well as as much firewood as they wanted, free of charge. It was a relief, to be in such a tolerant place after so many days of living free of even the barest necessities. When all this was over, Jaskier knew he would have to find ways to show the innkeep gratitude that went beyond just giving him coin. The man deserved nothing less.

Geralt appeared to be dozing off when Jaskier slipped back onto the stool by his head, but he wrenched his eyes open at the bard’s approach. He looked terribly sleepy, eyes sitting at half-mast and blinking heavily as he struggled to keep awake. If it hadn’t been under such dire circumstances, Jaskier might have found it very endearing.

As Jaskier gently slipped a towel under Geralt’s bloodied head, the Witcher seemed to rouse a little more, or at least his eyes began focusing properly and he appeared to be taking in his surroundings with a bit more interest. He winced and reached down to rub at his right leg before the bard caught his hand.

“Best not to touch it quite yet. It’s been made a right mess.”

Geralt reached up and rubbed his knuckles against his eyes, trying to rouse himself a bit more.

“What happened?” When the words came, they were breathy and barely there. Jaskier wet his hands with the warm water from the basin and began massaging them through Geralt’s hair, smiling a bit when he sighed with some combination of relief and exhaustion. There was a pang of worry, though, when the bard realized that it had not been that long since Geralt had last asked the exact same question.

“You were shot while we were escaping the keep. We’ve already been over this. Are you still fevered?”

Geralt’s forehead was cool, though very sweaty, and Jaskier chalked it up to the pain and confusion caused by his wounds. He was already falling asleep again, head slumping to the side as Jaskier tried to get a bit more blood untangled from the unruly ivory curls. The bard had noted, the few times they had been caught out in the rain, that Geralt’s hair turned curling at the ends, wrapping about his temples and coiling loosely down his back. Now that it was clean and damp, though, it pulled itself into more defined curls. It was very beautiful, and Jaskier made a point of scrunching it up a bit before sliding the towel out from under Geralt’s head. His hair splayed out on the pillow, ends twisting up. The bard smoothed a bit of it away from his forehead fondly, knowing that Geralt was mostly asleep and far too ill to care anyways.

“You rest,” Jaskier whispered as he pulled away, gently tucking the quilt around Geralt’s bare chest again, “I’m going to see about getting us some food, and perhaps performing down in the tavern to earn ourselves some coin. Apparently, this place is a mining town, which means I should earn some good tips. And I need to get in touch with the lord over these lands as well. Send some help back to Corvin’s keep. I can’t let those poor people continue suffering if there’s a chance we can free them.”

Geralt shifted a bit, clearly most of the way asleep. He blinked his eyes open tiredly and nodded, though it was a weak effort.

“’M sorry.” It was a muttered statement, and at first Jaskier hoped he had misheard, or that the apology had not been intended for him.

“What do you have to be sorry for?”

“Not much help…like this.” His eyes were rolling back in his head, and he was pale and shaking and sweating all at once. Jaskier gripped his hand gently, running a finger over the calloused knuckles.

“You saved my life many times over back there, Geralt. And you paid dearly for it. Let me look after you here, alright? I just need to go speak with a few people, run some errands. You sleep off the rest of that fever, and then we’ll see about getting you some broth and I’ll check on how your knee is healing, yes?”

The Witcher closed his eyes miserably at the mention of food, turning a shade or two paler. He had lost a good deal of weight that he could not afford while they had been in captivity. Having been lean before, he was now pared down to nothing but muscle and bone.

“You have to try to eat something, or you’ll never heal. And a wound like the one in your knee will take a lot of effort on your body’s part to put to rights.”

“Mhmm…just makes me ill.”

“Fair enough. I’ll try to find the blandest thing I can. Considering that even your regular pallet isn’t particularly developed, except when it comes to wine and ale.”

“Hmm.” Geralt’s mouth twitched up a bit in lazy amusement at that, though when he began to chuckle it quickly turned into coughs which had him doubled over, clutching at his stomach. Jaskier sat him back against the headboard until he could catch his breath, leaning the Witcher’s head against his own shoulder when he could not support its weight.

“Right, point taken, I won’t make you laugh. Though I have to admit I didn’t know you had it in you.”

“’S the fever. Still…breaking.” There was still a faint hint of a smile on Geralt’s lips, though, and irrationally, Jaskier found himself hoping it was more than just the illness causing his amusement.

Once his spastic breathing had settled a bit, Jaskier lowered him back down onto the mound of pillows that the innkeep had lent them, probably pulled from other rooms. He took one from near the side of the bed and used it to elevate Geralt’s knee, trying to touch it as little as possible when even that slight movement caused an intake of breath and a poorly muffled, sleepy groan.

“That’s me off, then. Just try to get some rest, alright? I’ll be back soon, and we’ll see what we can do about getting some food.”

When Jaskier turned around from buttoning up his borrowed jacket, also due to the innkeep’s kindness, Geralt was already fast asleep. His head was turned to the side, lips parted just a bit to take in shaky breaths. He looked so pale, and very weak, with sweat still dripping off his forehead and his wrists and neck swathed in bandages, but there was something almost beautiful about him as well. The gentle light from the fire, the softness of his slightly damp, newly washed curls that were still splayed out a bit on the pillow. Jaskier realized that he didn’t think he had ever gotten a good look at Geralt while he was asleep before. The Witcher usually fell asleep long after him and rose with the sun. There was a peace to his expression, even though it was mired with physical pain, that was rarely there when he was awake. Resisting the urge to stroke his forehead and stay by the bed, singing gently, Jaskier turned and pushed open the door as lightly as possible, not wanting to disturb his friend’s rest even as a strange new heat turned sweetly in his chest.

There had been no light filtering in through the curtains when last Geralt awoke, and when he blinked his eyes open again, he was dimly surprised to see that not much had changed. Jaskier was still gone; there was no gentle flitting of feet or humming that denoted his presence, which meant that Geralt couldn’t have been asleep for very long. Though, once he took stock of his body, he was not surprised that he had woken.

At some point during his foreshortened rest, he must have tried to turn onto his side, which was probably what had jolted him awake. His bandaged knee was twisted off the pillow upon which Jaskier had left it, and the stitches were yanking unpleasantly, skin that had barely begun to knit back together ripping apart with every breath he took. His wrists and neck hurt as well, though the pain waxed and waned as burns so often do. Flexing his hands, Geralt felt blisters peel and pull underneath the bandages, and he quickly stopped moving. Blisters were cushions, meant to protect wounded skin from acquiring further damage. Vesemir had drilled that particular lesson into his head very early on during his time at Kaer Morhen, and it had scarce left him since.

To top off his misery, and probably the reason he couldn’t get himself back to sleep despite the fact that he could barely keep his eyes open, there was a deep, pounding ache that had settled in behind Geralt’s temples and forehead. Most likely a residual effect from the very high fever that had barely broken, compounded by dehydration and a great deal of blood loss. Come to think of it, Geralt felt so weak that he doubted he could even readjust his aching knee to elevate it again. The thought of lying helplessly in bed, waiting for Jaskier to return, was not a pleasant one. Especially when he was so exhausted that he could barely keep his eyes open.

After about ten minutes of trying to relax his hands, which were trembling from pain, Geralt gave up on any chance of falling asleep without some sort of draught or at least help repositioning his leg so it stopped pulling. He tried propping himself up on his elbows to move his knee back onto the pillows, but discovered that they only trembled and buckled under his weight. Shaking and soaked with sweat, he fell back onto the mound of pillows, miserable and defeated and head pounding even worse than before.

The ceiling began to swim a bit before his tired eyes, and Geralt allowed them to fall shut in the hopes that it would ease his head a bit. His hands fisted in and out of the blankets, and as a sort of meditation exercise he tried to parse through the events of the last few days. Everything was muddled and blurred in his mind; he barely remembered arriving at this place and had a distinct memory that Corvin had created the whole thing as an illusion, though he was conscious enough now to realize that not even an elf could create an illusion as powerful as this. He could not recall what had injured his knee so horribly, only that Jaskier had said he had been shot during their escape. The bolt must have been removed at some point while he was unconscious or delirious, but the pain had the telltale hollow ache of broken bones, and Geralt wondered tiredly if he would ever regain proper use of the limb. The bard had done his best, likely as well as any healer would have done with such a wound, but it pulled and tensed uncontrollably, and Geralt knew the damage went far deeper than simply removing the bolt could cure.

Moving on past the most obvious wounds, Geralt was pleased to discover that the blackness and swelling in his veins appeared to have mostly disappeared, replaced just with the blistering dimeritium burns on his wrists and neck. Another catastrophic wound, he reflected bitterly. Not being able to turn his head without pain would keep him from taking contracts until it was properly healed, and he would not be able to grip a sword in either hand for some time, until the damage to his wrists and tendons healed. There was also a dull, thudding pain in his ankle, though that extremity was so far removed from the more immediate agony that Geralt barely gave it any thought. The bard must have set the broken bones, and with his knee in its current state, there was no chance he would be walking without help for quite a while anyways. Best to let it rest and heal as best it could.

Head still aching too much to sleep, Geralt did his best to brace his knee with shaking muscles, and he drifted for a while, wishing very much to simply fall back into unconsciousness. It could have been hours or days from the time when he woke until Jaskier returned; he had lost too much time to make an accurate estimation, and didn’t much care anyways. But when the bard finally slipped back in, lifting the door a bit to prevent it from squeaking, Geralt couldn’t help the rush of relief he felt. Cracking an eye, he saw that Jaskier was balancing a large tray of food on his arm, his lute case slung over his back and a large quantity of papers bunched up and bursting from between his unburdened elbow and chest. He winced when he smacked his wrist on the door, cursing before seemingly remembering that Geralt was asleep and hushing himself, allowing the papers to fall in a characteristically disordered fashion to the floor with a soft shifting noise. Apparently, he had yet to notice that the Witcher was not asleep.

If Geralt hadn’t been so exhausted, he would have probably allowed himself a small smile at the bard’s gestures. Always the performer, every movement he made was carefully planned to make as little noise as possible, even elevating his heels from the floor so he didn’t cause the boards to creak as much. However, Geralt was too tired to investigate these feelings of fondness and amusement overmuch, and settled for shifting a bit instead to let the bard know that he was awake.

Jaskier nearly jumped out of his skin at the small movement, and let out a burst of obscenities that probably would have brought the acolytes of several different religious institutions down on him all at once. Geralt screwed his eyes shut, the noise doing nothing for his head, and Jaskier quickly let his voice slip into a whisper.

“Sorry, sorry,” he gasped under his breath, still panting from surprise, “I just…wasn’t expecting you to be up! And I’m a bit preoccupied as well. I should have been quieter. Say…are you alright?”

The noise of Jaskier’s return had been the final nail in the coffin for Geralt’s headache, which was so painful and bright that he had to bite through his lip to keep from groaning. Raising a sore wrist, he rubbed at his eyes, hoping it would do something for the pain, but it only got worse.

There was a soft pattering of feet, and then Jaskier was at his side, smelling of meat pies and the outdoors and the sweet undertones of rosin that seemed to accompany him wherever he went. A few pillows were pulled from behind Geralt’s head, and he felt himself being eased backwards ever so gently. It did very little for the pain in his forehead, but the backache he hadn’t even realize was there eased a bit; probably a side effect of spending so much time lying in the same position.

“There,” Jaskier was stroking his forehead, probably feeling for a fever, “That’s a bit better, yes? Now, can you tell me what’s wrong so I can help you? I’m sorry if I woke you coming in; I did my best to be quiet, but I know your ears are a bit more sensitive than the average person’s.”

Geralt thought for a moment, which was incredibly difficult with the pounding in his temples. Everything felt off and wrong; his stitches were pulling everywhere all of a sudden, as though the bard had picked up the pieces of him and sewn him back together from scratch. How was it that mere moments ago he had been coherent enough to form sentences and thoughts? Such capabilities seemed miles away now.

“My head…” The words managed to force their way between his lips, though they sounded far weaker and more slurred than Geralt would have liked. He couldn’t even make it to the part about how his knee was sore and pulling as well. He just wanted some herbs for the pain, which was not a thought he had very often. If only Lambert could be here to mock him his weakness now.

Jaskier seemed to understand well enough, though, because he bent over and dripped a small vial into a cup of water that must have been sitting on the bedside table. Geralt hadn’t had the strength to turn his head and look, but the sweet, sharp smells of peppermint and lavender filled the air and he breathed a sigh of relief. The bard dipped his fingers in the liquid and trailed it over Geralt’s forehead and temples, down his neck and on his chest. The Witcher blinked. This was not a treatment he had experienced before. Though it was rare for him to stop and seek treatment for a headache unless it was debilitating, which was a rare occurrence usually caused by an overindulgence of potions.

“I’m just rubbing it on pressure points. I had a lover once who would do this for me when I was sore after a day of…ah, vigorous activity. Not that that pain in any way compares to what you’re feeling, but…I figured…since I was out. It might help.”

“No…it feels good.”

It wasn’t much by the way of reassurance, but Geralt was having an increasing amount of difficulty finding words, even now that the pain had receded a bit with the smooth, gentle scent of the lavender overwhelming his senses. It seemed enough, though. From what Geralt could see through his blurry, tired eyes, Jaskier looked relieved. The embarrassed colouring had also disappeared somewhat from his cheeks, flushed bright against the light of the fire and the darkness of the room.

“That’s good. Shall I come sit? I can rub your scalp, if you’d like,” he trailed off, shaking his head as though he regretted even suggesting it, “No, no. Ignore me. Clearly all that time in captivity didn’t do my already regrettably low boundaries any good. I know you wouldn’t want that.”

Geralt thought about it. His head was fuzzy and tired, and his eyes were aching in time with his pulse, which in turn matched the tempo of the pain that seemed to occupy every nook and cranny of his body. The lavender had pushed back the dull thudding of his headache a bit, but he still hurt terribly, too much to truly fall asleep again. And yet he was too exhausted and weak even to keep his eyes open.

Perhaps, just this once, it wouldn’t hurt. And of all the people outside of his brothers at Kaer Morhen that Geralt could choose to look after him in such a way, Jaskier was, to his great surprise, his first choice. Grimacing, he braced his arms underneath him and tried to shift down in the bed to make room for the bard.

“Hey, easy now,” Jaskier wrapped his arms around the least injured part of Geralt’s torso before the Witcher found himself collapsing to the side, “Where do you think you’re going? I know I shouldn’t have asked that, but you can’t go now. You wouldn’t even make it down to the stables, let alone onto Roach’s back.”

Geralt tried to ignore the twinge of sadness in the bard’s words as he leaned back exhaustedly, completely spent, head pounding and stars bursting before his eyes. He just wanted to sleep.

“You can,” he muttered, words slurring together drunkenly, “What…what you offered.”

“Oh,” Geralt could imagine Jaskier gaping even though the bard was behind him, “Oh…well. In that case, then…ah…is it alright if I put your head in my lap? Just so it’s more comfortable for you; I know your neck must ache something horrible, with that awful burn.”

“Mhmm.”

“Alright, come here. No, you don’t need to try to get up, just let me help you. You’re in no fit state to be moving about.”

Geralt allowed himself to be manhandled a bit, too exhausted to consider the implications of it overmuch. Jaskier’s lutist’s hands were soft and they supported his sore shoulders and aching neck, leaving him blinking exhaustedly up at the ceiling as it swam above him. The bard settled him gently between his crossed legs, a pillow at his back.

“Good?”

“Hmm.”

“Alright, I’ll take that as a yes. I know you must be hurting. Get some sleep while I do this, yes? And maybe when you wake again you can have some food. You’ll waste away, after all those days of not eating.”

Geralt’s stomach turned at the thought of food, but he was ill and tired from trying to move, and he chalked it up to that. Now that he was lying with his head in the bard’s lap, he could hear the other man’s pulse, far more rapid than his own. It was calming, a bit like the crashing of waves against the seashores in Skellige, where he had travelled not long ago. Whether consciously or not, Jaskier’s hands carded through his hair in time with this pulse, and the whole effect was rhythmic and soothing, leaving Geralt feeling as though he were being carried away on the waves. He was a bit dizzy as well, which only amplified the effect. Closing his eyes, he tried to rest, focusing on the easing of his headache as those gentle fingers slowly worked their way through his tangled hair.

There was no way of measuring time in the darkness that settled behind Geralt’s closed eyes, but it must have been some time later when he became aware again. He had not been sleeping, not truly. There was a vague memory of thoughts filtering in and out of his consciousness as Jaskier’s hands filtered in and out of his hair. But the thoughts had been barely there, confused and hazy, and he came to feeling hot and sick and altogether unwell. The bard had stopped stroking his head at some point, and though Geralt didn’t feel well enough to open his eyes, he could tell from the rhythmic rise and fall behind him and the slow heartbeat that the other man must have fallen asleep. Loathe to wake him, Geralt tried to keep his wincing and twitching to a minimum. The spasms in his leg muscles were back, and his hands were too tired and sore to grip his knee and keep it from kicking out. He lay there, panting, wondering how on earth it was possible that he could awaken feeling more miserable than when he had drifted off.

There was a small snuffling noise from behind him, and Jaskier shifted, clearly still not entirely aware. He stretched out his legs, causing Geralt’s head and injured neck to thump down on the mattress with a groan.

The bard gasped then, coming to awareness all at once.

“Fuck,” he grumbled, hands coming down to rest on each side of Geralt’s head, covering his ears and making the Witcher wince at the sudden dullness of sound compared to its normal vibrancy, “Gods, I’m sorry, I wasn’t quite all there. Are you alright?”

Decidedly not alright, Geralt found himself trying to choke back a sudden wave of nausea at the new change in altitude. His head was spinning, and he felt awful. The stitches in his knee pulled tight, hot and angry against the healing skin.

“Oh, Gods, you’re not alright, are you? I’m so sorry. Here, come sit up against me. Are you going to be sick?”

Mouth already dripping and throat working convulsively simply to keep from vomiting all over himself, Geralt nodded, head hanging down exhaustedly. There was a soft rustling of something, and suddenly a bowl made its way into his bleary vision. He choked and gagged while Jaskier rubbed soothing circles on his back, hushing him in a way that would have been mortifying had he not been so miserable already.

After what felt like hours, even the bile was mostly gone from Geralt’s stomach. There hadn’t been much there to begin with; just a bit of bread and cheese from their meal with Corvin that he had yet to digest. He hung his head, the only thing keeping it from resting on the lip of the bowl being Jaskier’s soft, calloused hand. He sighed letting a little whimper escape with the air. Every part of him hurt.

“Shhh,” Jaskier seemed almost as miserable as Geralt felt, though his was more of a psychological misery, as though his inability to take away Geralt’s pain caused him to physically hurt, “Come here and lean on me. That’s it, just relax. You’ll be alright now. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have moved you like that. You’re so very ill.”

There was a twinge of fear in the last words that caught Geralt’s attention. He couldn’t fathom why the bard would bother worrying about him. It certainly wasn’t the first time he had vomited from physical pain. And in his line of work there was no chance it would be the last, either. He sighed again, still desperately tired but the spasms in his leg preventing him from sleeping.

“’M fine,” he mumbled groggily, “’S just my leg…hurting. Tell me…where you went. It’ll distract me.”

Jaskier seemed surprised to hear Geralt string so many words together when there was still bile dripping from his chin. He wiped Geralt’s mouth with a towel and the covered the bowl with it, setting it well out of the way.

“I suppose this is the only time you’ll ever ask that I speak to you,” he said with a funny sort of laugh, “So I had better take advantage of it. What would you like to hear about?”

“Just talk, bard.” Geralt was grinding the words out now; he was terribly sore and just wanted to rest his tired head and listen to the seemingly never-ending stream of wittering dialogue that normally tumbled from the bard’s mouth like salmon over a waterfall.

“Alright. Are you comfortable?”

“As I can be.” Geralt shifted a bit, and allowed Jaskier to run his hands through his hair, still damp with residual fever sweat and other foul substances.

“I went to visit the town alderman. I was hoping perhaps there was a healer in a neighbouring town who could see to your knee; I’m very worried that the shattered bones aren’t going to mend without some sort of setting, and I know you need it functioning completely in order to keep doing your…witchering. Unfortunately, it seems as though we’re quite isolated here; no other towns for miles and certainly none that would be willing to offer help.”

“Hmm.” Geralt noticed Jaskier’s diligent skirting around the subject of why none of these villages would be willing to offer up a healer. He wondered why the bard attempted to hide the issue. Geralt knew well enough that he was a pariah in most places, more beast than human, not deserving of a gentle touch. He settled back, riding out the waves of his aching head and sore body.

“Anyways…the alderman did offer some help with some other business I needed to clear up. You remember Devon, the young soldier who let us leave Corvin’s keep? The one who said that his family was being held captive?”

Geralt wrinkled his aching brow and rubbed it with the hand that was less sore. He had very little recollection of their escape beyond the fact that it had hurt very much, and that he had been tired and dizzy and unable to see straight for most of it. The soldier’s name rang no bells in his memory, though his mind did seem to bear some recollection when Jaskier mentioned that the boy’s family had somehow been held captive. He shrugged, face tightening when the movement made his neck throb as well.

“Well…in any case, I promised I would send someone back to help them. All the people that Corvin has entrapped and enslaved, that is. I’m not sure how lucid you were by that point. And the alderman told me that he had an inkling of what might be going on in the neighbouring land. He said, with our proof, he could gather together a sizeable army from other settlements in the area and hopefully oust Corvin once and for all, and free the people he’s holding in Errowhal!”

The bard finished on a triumphant note which jerked Geralt out of his doze; he had been listening as much as he was able, still unable to fully go to sleep. At some point during Jaskier’s one-sided conversation, he had realized he was very thirsty, and swallowed against his dry throat, considering whether or not to ask for water. It would help his dehydration, but he didn’t relish the idea that there was no chance he would be able to get up to piss later on. He could feel his cheeks colouring even at the thought of Jaskier having to attend to such matters. Though, when he considered it as much as he was willing and able to, he realized that it could be far worse. And chances were he had already pissed himself while he was delirious with fever and the aftereffects of the laudanum. Such was the way of an illness that took his mind, along with a healthy dose of opiates. He grimaced, trying not to think about it in too much detail. The bard, ever a gentleman, hadn’t mentioned anything.

“Gods, you must be parched! I’m a fool, speaking only of myself while you’re here suffering. Let me get you some water, yes? And maybe some broth, if you’re well enough, now you’ve gotten everything up? I brought some trays up with me when I got back earlier.”

Geralt winced again.

“Sorry…,” he rasped tiredly, “You’re probably starved.”

“Ah,” Jaskier waved an elegant, pale hand, “Anything for you, my dear. I would rather you were comfortable and warm and on your way to feeling well again. Besides, I bought a pear while I was out. It was delicious. I brought a few more back, if you’re feeling up to it.”

Geralt gulped at the mere thought of eating solid food. He could still taste the bile and stomach acid sitting low in the back of his throat. Instead, he tried to focus on Jaskier’s hands, which were soft and kept flitting in and out of his eyesight. Strange, he had never noticed before how much the bard talked with his hands. They fluttered about like odd little butterflies, vein-lines somewhere between green and blue, like little rivers across his pale skin. From such a close vantage point, Geralt could see the callouses built up from years of strumming the lute. They were impressive, in some places even better built up than his own from years of swordplay. They added an interesting element to the topography of the bard’s hands as well. Like mountains, pulled up after years of hard work from the earth. He shook himself. He was becoming far too sentimental. It must be the injuries talking.

By the time he realized that he was staring far too intently at the bard’s hands, Jaskier’s face was already creased with worry, one hand reaching out to palm his forehead again. Geralt found himself starting at the coldness of it; Jaskier’s hands felt like ice on his still-warm skin.

“You look tired,” was all the bard settled on, instead of commenting on Geralt’s lapse in focus, “Let’s get you some food, and then you can go back to sleep. Do you feel well enough to sit up for a little bit? I don’t want you to choke on top of everything else.”

Geralt considered fuzzily. He was still rather nauseous, but knew that Jaskier probably had good intentions trying to get him to eat. It was just as likely that his illness was caused by not having eaten for days as it was by his injuries and pain. With his aching head, sitting felt like a bit of a stretch, but Jaskier looked so earnest, so frightened. His heart was beating rather frantically in his chest, and Geralt suddenly had a groggy recollection of something similar happening in Corvin’s dungeon, of the bard apologizing for getting them in this mess and taking the blame for what had happened.

_You can’t let him keep thinking that,_ a small voice in Geralt’s head admonished softly, _Not when none of this was his fault. At least give him the reassurance that you won’t perish when he thinks it’s on his account._

Geralt sighed. The voice was right. The least he could do was offer Jaskier a bit of reassurance, that he was, in fact, alright. Or at least not as weak as he felt inside. It was as though his limbs had melted into pudding, as though the fever had taken his muscles and burned them away from his bones. He was shaking simply from the effort of keeping his painful muscle spasms under control.

“Maybe…” he waved his sore hand, not particularly wanting to go on. Jaskier nodded, seeming to understand, and eased himself out from behind the Witcher, piling up several pillows. He then inserted himself under one of Geralt’s shoulders, and, very gently, helped him get upright. The slight shift in position had Geralt reeling, head tilting dangerously on his shoulders, and he felt Jaskier place both his arms on the bard’s slight shoulders, encouraging him to lean his weight forward. There was even a cold, soothing hand rubbing softly at the back of his neck as he choked and gasped back nausea, trying to get his balance back.

“There you are,” Jaskier said softly, as though to spare Geralt’s ears, “Not so bad now you’re up, is it? Just lean back against the pillows, and I’ll help you eat something.”

Geralt wanted to tell Jaskier that he needed to eat as well, that a pear wasn’t nearly enough. But there was blood rushing in his ears and pounding through his aching head, and it was all he could do not to completely collapse into Jaskier’s arms as the bard guided him back against the pillows, getting him settled against the headboard of the bed. His neck was sore again now too, the blistering burn thudding in time with the pulse in his head. He sighed tiredly, not bothering to open his eyes as another pillow was slipped beneath his head.

_I don’t have the damn coin for this much luxury._ It was a fleeting thought, and Geralt wondered how much the bard had had to barter and beg to get them such comfortable lodgings and food. As if his kindness and gentleness wasn’t already more than the Witcher had received from anyone since setting out from Kaer Morhen.

When Geralt managed to crack an eye, he felt the mattress dipping next to him and found Jaskier settling himself on the pile of pillows as well, a tray of food in his lap. Something between deep hunger and painful nausea struck out from Geralt’s gut when he saw the food; a thick stew of lamb and apples and squash, a bowl of what looked like walnuts and beets roasted in brown cane sugar, clotted cream with berries and scones, and two steaming mugs of what could have been tea but smelled more like mulled wine. There was also a smaller bowl in which was what looked like broth, with a few small dumplings and some carrots floating on the surface of it. He sighed. If he had felt less ill, he would have happily let Jaskier feed him the whole thing, weakness be damned. As it was, the broth was enough to turn his stomach, and he swallowed, leaning back sleepily against the cushions, partly hoping that the bard would eat his own food and not push the matter of Geralt eating too much. His eyelids drooped as Jaskier took a sip of the mulled wine, and allowed a small, dizzy smile to creep across his face as he heard the bard sigh. Something that felt almost like fondness, the same warmth that bloomed in his chest when Roach would bump him affectionately or Eskel would ruffle his hair, settled in his gut. It was surprising and disarming. He had not expected to feel any such things for a travelled who had attached himself on to Geralt’s path so unexpectedly.

“Hey, Geralt, I know you’re sleepy, but I can’t have you dozing off quite yet. Just a little broth, just to get your strength back. Then you can rest for as long as you want, I promise.”

Barely having realized he had closed them again, Geralt peeled his eyes open. His cheeks flushed a bit when Jaskier held up a spoon to his lips, but when he tried to raise his own hand to take it, he found it shook with weakness, and that the burns hurt terribly. Resigned, he let the bard feed him a few mouthfuls of soup, and even accepted some water and mulled wine, though the latter was far too sweet and hot for his sensitive stomach. He shook his head then.

“No more,” he sighed, “Don’t want to be sick on you.”

Jaskier laughed, a funny thing. It sounded wounded, almost like a sob.

“Well, I never would have guessed such a thing would have bothered you, considering you spend your days rolling about in monster guts and swamps. But you’re looking rather pale, so perhaps it’s time you got that rest now?”

Geralt nodded, letting himself slump and ease down a bit on the pillows. It was easier to catch his breath sitting up like this, and he thought perhaps that sleeping sitting up wouldn’t be so bad on his bruised and battered body. Jaskier pulled the quilt up over his still bare chest, checked that the bandage on his knee was still well wrapped, tutting disapprovingly when he saw that Geralt had bled through the fabric.

“We’ll have to change these dressings and check the stitches next time you’re awake; they’re very swollen and bleeding more than I’d like. But for now, I’ll let you rest. I don’t think anything will change too much while you recover your strength for a few hours. Do you need anything else before I let you fall asleep?”

He considered. The bard was warm, and Geralt was still feeling rather cold and woozy from blood loss. It was a craven thing, to ask for someone to stay with him while he was ill. Cowardly, and taking advantage of the fact that the bard appeared, inexplicably, to have grown fond of him. But he was tired, and still a bit feverish, and the words slipped out before he realized they were sitting on his tongue.

“Stay? You’re…warm.”

A brilliance shone suddenly in Jaskier’s bright eyes, almost as though he was about to cry. Geralt quickly opened his mouth to backtrack, feeling foolish for allowing his weakness such a voice in the first place, but before he could, the bard had crawled under the covers next to him. He was very warm, and Geralt sighed at the relief on his chilled skin, marred as it was with gooseflesh. He was still too sensitive from the fever to wear a shirt, but this warmth, he thought dizzily, was far better.

“You lovely flatterer,” Jaskier murmured sleepily from beside him, fond warmth filling his voice like a cup of heady mead, “Asking for what you want. I do appreciate your honesty, so very much. Now, let yourself get some rest.”

Letting his eyes slip shut and the bard’s warmth infuse his own frozen skin, Geralt sank away from his pulling stitches and aching arms and neck, and fell properly asleep for the first time in days.


	7. An Unexpected Missive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt continues to recover, though more slowly than he expected. Jaskier receives some intriguing and confusing information. A journey is planned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is another soft one folks (just in case you hadn't noticed that I'm a sucker for these yet)! I'm so sorry it's a day late; somehow I managed to forget it was Tuesday amidst trifle-making, looking after kids and feeling extremely tired. But we're here now!! Thank you so much for all the kudos and comments on the last chapter, as always :) Enjoy!

Geralt ran a tired hand over his face the next time he woke, wondering why his back was sore. Sighing tiredly, he rolled to the side, trying to stretch out muscles that ached far more than they usually did. His skin felt very prickly and sensitive all over, the way it always did when he was overcoming a fever. Wincing, he turned sleepily again, knee pulling and aching, and smacked into something warm and soft. Living flesh, breathing contentedly, heart settled into the steady rhythm of sleep. Feeling chilled, Geralt wrapped his arm around the other person, not entirely sure who it was but knowing he would never have fallen asleep next to them if it hadn’t been safe to do so. Even wounded, he was more than capable of staying awake for days on end if he wasn’t safe enough to sleep. Though he definitely wasn’t feeling well enough to bring someone back into bed with him, and was curious about who had fallen asleep with him anyways.

The other person shifted, moaned happily, and nuzzled themselves backwards, until they were cocooned inside the hollow created by Geralt’s chest. Their movement shifted his wounded knee, and he snapped his eyes open with a poorly concealed groan. Brown hair. The soft smell of rosin and forest and fine cologne, along with the very faint scent of laundry soap. Jaskier.

They broke apart at the same time, Geralt because he was shocked to find his nose nuzzled into the bard’s curly hair, and Jaskier because he had just woken to the Witcher’s grunt of pain. As soon as he tried to get himself up on his elbows, Geralt found himself too weak to support his own weight, and flopped face-down into the pillows, heart still racing a bit. Jaskier caught him, cursing under his breath, and eased him upright, brows pulled tight as a newly strung bow.

“Great Melitele, Geralt! You could have woken me if I was hurting you. Let’s see to that knee, yes?”

These were not the words that Geralt had expected to come tumbling from the bard’s lips, especially not after so many days of the man blaming himself for what had happened with Corvin. Gone were the strange statements of self-hatred and guilt that had plagued Jaskier for the days since they had entered Corvin’s realm, even before they were captured. A brief flame of rage shot forth in Geralt’s stomach. It must have been some sort of enchantment, a manipulation of Jaskier’s mind that had caused him to act so uncharacteristically. Cursing Corvin, and, oddly enough, feeling relieved to have Jaskier back, Geralt leaned into the pillows with a deep sigh. He was still very tired.

“Just a little sore,” he grunted out, “You might need to redo those stitches. I think a few of them might have pulled out.”

The bard leaned over, resting on one elbow, and dusted a few stray hairs out of Geralt’s face. Surprisingly, his countenance lit up a bit as he did so, though he still looked concerned.

“You seem a bit better today,” he said, with a tinge if brightness that had been gone for days, “It’s so good to have you back, you know. It was frightening, sitting at your bedside while you were too weak to even lift a hand, raving about all sorts of strange things I’d never heard of before in my life. As well as a good deal of amusing things while shall live forever in my privately composed ballads. Fear not, your love of alpine strawberries and grassy meadows is safe with me.”

Trying to keep his pained grimace in check, Geralt raised an eyebrow at the bard. It was hard to look intimidating when he was sure he was several shades paler than usual, and still very sick. Jaskier grinned at him, though, squeezing his shoulder.

“I’d gladly sit through your ravings for days if it meant you were healed at the end. I have missed you, my friend. And I’m glad you’re finally getting better instead of spiralling further into illness. It means we can focus on getting your knee healed up. I did my best, but…it’s very damaged. I think it’ll cause us a good deal of grief to rehabilitate.”

_Us?_ What an unfamiliar term. Especially when travelling the path. The only time Geralt ever thought he had heard himself referred to as a cohesive member of a whole was when he was wintering at Kaer Morhen. Never on the road, where he was perpetually an other, sometimes not even a human, but merely a thing, a means to an end. He blinked, and the bard patted his shoulder, seemingly oblivious to his surprise.

“Well, the long and the short of it is I’m glad you’re no longer raving and too weak to raise your head. Perhaps you’d feel up for a bath today?” The bard wrinkled his slightly upturned nose, and Geralt felt more at ease. This was a reaction he was far more used to dealing with. He nodded tiredly.

“The water should loosen up the stitches a bit,” he grunted tiredly, “makes them easier to dig out and redo.”

“Dig out?”

“It’s quickest. Undoing knots takes time.”

Still feeling a bit sleepy and groggy, Geralt nearly got whiplash at how quickly the bard’s expression had changed from fond and slightly silly to pure horror. He leaned back against the pillows, surprised when Jaskier’s hand was there to guide his neck. Surely, he would be alright laying down on his own by now. But the help was rather welcome; his neck was still blistering, and his muscles felt like jelly.

“You may not care for causing yourself pain, but I definitely don’t want to make you hurt worse than you already are. So, I will most _definitely_ be taking the time to undo the knots in every single one of the stitches that I put in. I’ll even make you some valerian tea if you don’t want to be awake while I’m doing it. I bought some while I was out in the market yesterday.”

“It’s fine. I’m tired enough. Want to stay awake for a bit.” Being constantly groggy and moments away from sleep was wearing Geralt down. He was used to being alert, and he hated feeling like a small child, barely able to stay awake for an hour before he needed to rest again. Of course, all this was not to mention that Jaskier looked worried, when there was no need for him to go out of his way to help Geralt feel better. Best to show that he was feeling well, even if it meant putting on an act to make himself seem better than he truly was. Perhaps the bard would be fooled, if only for a little while.

“Very well,” Jaskier’s face crunched up again with concern, “But please tell me if you’re in pain. You’ve had enough of that over the last few days. You need to rest and get well again.”

Geralt shrugged and readjusted himself against the pillows. They were sinfully soft and comfortable, plush around him and gentle on his blistered neck. The bandages around his neck and wrists were beginning to itch as well, and he winced a bit at the thought of the bard pulling the bandages away from his puckering, burnt skin. A bath would be best, definitely. It would make his skin supple, make a painful process a bit more bearable. If not for him, then at least for Jaskier, sensitive to a fault.

“I’ll go down and get someone to fill the bath, alright? You can go back to sleep; it might be a while.”

Geralt shrugged and sighed. His head was spinning. Whatever food he had managed to get down earlier was twisting about in his stomach, though he no longer felt like he was going to be sick.

“Go. I’ll be fine.”

Jaskier, who was halfway to the door, turned about with a huff.

“You know, you don’t need to act so stoic around me. Perhaps when we were in Errowhal and Corvin was working whatever sick magic he fancied on my mind, and I thought this was all my fault, then yes. But I’m capable, and willing to help you. I might be worried for you because I care for you, but I’m not going to crack under the pressure of your wounds like some porcelain vase. I’m made of tougher stock than that.”

Geralt frowned. It both saddened him and caused him a great deal of relief to know that Jaskier was already aware that his guilt had been, in large part, a mind trick played on him by Corvin. The Witcher knew from personal experience that mind control was no easy thing to recover from. But he was glad the bard no longer had so much weighing on his conscience.

“I…yes.” He had no idea what to say. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had said they cared for him. Jaskier let out a huffing laugh and returned to his bedside, brushing a stray bit of sweaty hair out of his face.

“Eloquent as always. But you stink, and I’m sure you’re feeling unwell enough without worrying about all that grit and dirt on your skin. Don’t strain yourself. I’ll be back soon with some strapping young lads who will fill up the bathtub. I daresay I could do with a wash as well.”

Geralt raised an eyebrow speculatively and allowed his nose to wrinkle a tiny bit. He was slightly taken aback by his own levity, especially considering the fact that his head was pounding, and he felt dizzy and weak. Though perhaps that was contributing to it. He chalked it up to vestigial delirium, and relief that he was no longer in imminent danger of being subjected to more of Corvin’s sick trials.

“And they say Witchers have no sense of humour,” Jaskier smacked him gently on the chest, “I’ll be back in a moment. Rest your eyes, alright? No point in keeping awake for no reason.”

“Hmm.” Geralt closed his eyes and listened to the door shut softly as Jaskier’s footsteps receded down the hallway. Now that he was a bit more aware, he could hear the soft clanking of dishes and fragments of conversation floating up through the floorboards. Definitely not the usual fare for an inn in the middle of nowhere; it was far too peaceful. That, along with the dark beamed ceilings and the full-length mirror in the corner led him to wonder what sort of place this was. A lodge, perhaps, catering to passing noblemen? Jaskier had mentioned that the village was situated on a lake, near to a forest. Surely there were prime hunting lands near here. But staying in such a place, as well as ordering baths and fine food and clean sheets must be costing them a small fortune. Geralt wondered how Jaskier was affording it all. Especially since they had been stripped of near everything they owned before entering Corvin’s keep. Geralt had yet to understand how Jaskier had managed to get his swords back.

Lulled by the soft conversation and the lack of fighting and banging of tankards (though those sounds were welcome too, if only for their familiarity), Geralt allowed himself to drift. He felt soft and supple and warm, and the pillows were so comfortable. Even the pain of his wounds and the tugging in his knee receded into a background buzz. Slight elevations in the noise level downstairs began causing him to jolt a bit, everything seeming quiet until it was unbearably loud, as was always the way when he was about to fall asleep.

Geralt jerked out of a doze sometime later, and blinked blearily up at the ceiling. The dark beams blurred for a moment before coming into focus, and he sighed sleepily. The pain was back, and he felt disoriented again. It took a moment to realize that the noise that had pulled him back to awareness was Jaskier, who had silently opened the door and was slipping back in.

“Don’t trouble yourself on my account,” the bard whispered, treading nearly silently across the heavy wood floor, “You looked most of the way asleep. There’ll be some people up in a minute to fill the bath, but you don’t need to get up right away if you’re resting. Though I’ve had some intriguing news, if you’re feeling up to it.”

Sleepy and warm, Geralt did his best to rouse himself. He blinked forcefully a few times, and clenched his fists. The stinging pain of the burns roused him the rest of the way, and he propped himself up on wobbly elbows.

“Stop, you don’t need to get up,” Jaskier jogged over, flapping a parchment in his hand, “I’ll read it to you.”

Feeling shamefully relieved, Geralt sank back into the pillows, wondering what on earth Jaskier was on about. How someone had managed to get a missive to them in the middle of the wilderness was beyond him. No one had even known where they were travelling to; it had been a break between contracts and they were mostly wandering the wilds, searching for something to kill or a tavern where Jaskier could earn some coin.

“It’s a formal invitation,” Jaskier said, “From His Majesty Eist Tuirseach, Lord of the Skelligan Isles and, or so I hear, soon-to-be the husband of the lovely and quite frankly terrifying Queen Calanthe of Cintra. Apparently, he heard that the White Wolf of Rivia was in the area, and wanted to extend a warm welcome for both you and I to come stay with him in his hunting lodge, a few miles up in the mountains.”

Geralt raised an eyebrow. He had heard of Lord Eist. Even encountered him once, when they were both travelling to Cintra to woo separate women (Geralt had been deep in his cups and deeply enamoured by the bosom of a young lady at the local brothel who had treated him more like a human than a beast). All that being said, though, he did not know the lord well enough to warrant an invitation to his private estate. The whole thing reeked of conspiracy. Conspiracy or some impossibly difficult contract, something he was definitely not currently in the condition to undertake. Frowning, he tried to bite back a groan. He was tired enough without trying to navigate the vagaries of potentially politically charged situation.

“I don’t know him,” he grunted out, “He probably wants something. And, with my knee…”

“He’s offered to send a carriage. To the inn, no less. Come, think of it. There’ll be a bed there with feather cushions where you can rest and get your strength back, and proper baths with steam to ease your muscles, and perhaps even a healer who can see to your knee. And then, when you’re ready, we can go join the men who are going to face Corvin, and kill the bastard ourselves.”

There was a hopeful gleam in Jaskier’s eye that suggested he suspected there was more to Eist’s invitation than simple admiration for a legendary warrior. And the bard, deprived of normal human contact for months while they had been roaming the wilds, looked practically aching to go. A peacock, Geralt thought. That was what he was. Needing to be dragged back to civilization occasionally to show off his colourful plumage and strut before all the pretty young men and women.

“Fine. But the first hint that there’s something off about all this, and we’re leaving, injuries or no. Roach has carried me far longer in far worse condition. And I’ve no burning need for revenge.”

“I know a lie when I hear one. He tried to break you. And he’s hurting everyone in Errowhal. You may pretend to be uncaring and empty-hearted, but I know the truth about what happened in Blaviken. You won’t just walk away from those people, or what he tried to do to you.”

“Hmm.” Geralt’s ears were buzzing, and he was getting more and more exhausted by the minute. Considering the proposition had taken a lot out of him, and he cringed at the thought of travelling by carriage, when his stitches were pulling and aching as much as they were just from sitting with his knee propped up in bed. It would be unpleasant. But he had always been welcomed on the Skellige Isles, and had taken some of his most interesting and lucrative contracts there. He also maintained good relationships with several of the inhabitants of Kaer Trolde, and would be unhappy to lose his ability to travel to see them freely should he offend such a powerful Jarl. Jaskier was right. Such a request, however odd, brooked little opportunity for argument.

So wrapped up was he in wondering what Eist could possibly hope to achieve by inviting an injured Witcher and a young bard to his hunting lodge that he scarce noticed Jaskier at his side again, worried sounds passing through his lips. He shook himself.

“…Are you quite alright? You’ve gone all…distant, all of a sudden. Here, do you need to lie down?”

Lying down sounded good, but Geralt still felt gritty and dirty and desperately in need of a bath.

“’M fine. Just tired. Did they bring up bathwater?”

“Yes. While you were…being tired. Let’s get you up, the water’s still steaming, and I know you prefer it when it’s scalding hot.”

Geralt wondered where the bard had picked up that little tidbit of information. Perhaps his constant observation did have its perks. He tried to push himself up off the pillows on shaky hands, ignoring the spikes of pain that lanced through his wrists. Jaskier slipped under his shoulder, and somehow, they managed to ease his miserable knee off the bed and onto the floor.

It was the first time Geralt had seen the appendage since it had been so badly damaged, and suddenly Jaskier’s constant worrying made much more sense. The whole thing was thickly wrapped in bandages, making it so stiff that Geralt had to stretch his leg out in front of him to accommodate it. Though he doubted he would have been able to bend it anyways, with the amount of pain it caused when Jaskier had lifted it onto the floor. The whole bandage was encrusted in dark, rust-coloured blood, no longer even in the pattern of his stitches, but instead just a mass of fluid. It was still sticky and fresh in some spots, and had run a bit into the sheets. His ankle was also wrapped in bandages, and the skin that he could see poking through was purplish black, the colour of storm clouds before rain. In the mire of pain surrounding his knee, Geralt had nearly forgotten about the broken bones in his ankle. It would be no easy task to walk to the bath, and he was already leaning heavily on Jaskier, gasping miserably as his vision flickered in and out like the light from a guttering flame. The bard had placed a bracing hand on his shoulder, and was rubbing his back softly, almost under his breath.

“Just a little walk over now, you’re nearly there,” he murmured, and Geralt was too tired to feel embarrassed at his tone, “Try not to put any weight on that leg. You’ve bled enough as it is, and you’ll only hurt yourself if you fall. I may be stronger than some, but I’m in no position to go hefting you about this room like a sack.”

With this, Jaskier helped Geralt to stand on his one good leg, and the Witcher was suddenly far too preoccupied with his wobbling legs and hazy head and the sudden rush of pain in every single one of his limbs to even bother reprimanding Jaskier for his remark. He sagged, knees buckling after mere seconds of standing, and the bard grunted under his weight, hefting him up higher on his shoulder. Both of their breath was coming faster now, and with a few stumbling steps, Jaskier managed to get them over to the tub and Geralt’s hands balanced precariously on the rim. Geralt found himself feeling very glad he was already undressed; he didn’t think his body could take standing for the amount of time it would have taken even to ease a shirt over his head. Already, he was shivering from the shock of it, and Jaskier quickly levered his bad leg into the tub, and got him sitting down with an unseemly splash. In a detached way, Geralt hoped that the floorboards were well sealed with mud or clay. He had the distinct feeling they would wear out their welcome rather quickly if they rained down dirty bathwater upon the patrons of the inn below.

There was a moment of relative peace when he got into the bath. The water was steaming hot and relaxed his muscles instantly, leaving him supple after mere seconds in the water. But then, as it sometimes did when the pain was too much to bear all at once, a stinging crept up on him. Water soaked through the bandages on his knee rapidly, and the next thing Geralt knew, he was doubled over in pain, nose inches from the water, taking measured breaths to keep from groaning or crying out. His leg tensed and shivered, every muscle screeching in protest, and it took everything in his power to keep it from kicking out.

There was a hand on his back the next moment, rubbing it in soothing circles. Another hand pushed itself into his bruised chest, keeping his nose from dipping into the water.

“It must sting, just breathe through it, it’ll be better soon. Try to relax, or your leg’s going to hit the side of the bath.”

With a forceful and conscious effort, Geralt pushed his muscles into relaxation. It was a trick that had taken many years and many wounds to learn, but in the end, he managed to get his leg twitching only occasionally, despite the stinging pain that seared along every nerve. Jaskier helped him ease back so he was supported against the edge of the tub, and pulled his wrists out of the water, to keep the stinging to a minimum. Geralt’s head leaned back to rest on the wooden rim of the bath, and he took a few steadying breaths. Once he could focus past the pain, the water felt good. His muscles had been tensed and hard, and he had barely even realized it.

“There, that looks much better. Do you mind if I take a look at those bandages?”

Geralt shrugged and brought his arms up to rest on either side of the tub, knowing he had little choice in the matter. It would be painful, but the water was warm, and he was sleepy and hazy. Perhaps he could ride out the agony in his current dreamlike state.

A mug of something warm was pressed into his hand then, and Geralt looked up with surprise. It was a beautiful glazed mug, the one he had seen earlier on the tray, filled with mulled wine. He had thought that surely, Jaskier would have brought the mug back down or simply drunk it himself when it was obvious Geralt wasn’t feeling up to having it. But it appeared that he had kept it near the fire to keep it warmed.

“I added some vodka in from my pack. Just to get you drunk enough to ride this out without causing you more pain than I need to.”

Geralt was too hazy to protest at that point. He was already drunk on the warmth of the bath, and the relaxation that flowed through his muscles like molten silver. Wrapping his hand around the mug, he tried to take a sip, letting Jaskier tip the rest into his mouth when his arm failed and slumped back against the bath. It was good, and very sweet. The mulling spices were still in the wine; segments of orange bursting between his teeth and cloves releasing their sweet, intoxicating flavour when he bit into them. A bit of cinnamon and nutmeg swilled about at the bottom of the mug, making the last gulp exceptionally spicy. It went up Geralt’s nose a bit, and he sneezed, making his neck pull. Jaskier gave a little laugh.

“Bless. Are you alright?”

Geralt nodded, watching as his surroundings were slow to catch up with his bobbing head. Well and truly drunk, then. Or well on his way to it, at least. His whole body was buzzing pleasantly, and even the ache in his neck was disappearing into a sort of background chatter. He felt himself being manhandled, Jaskier lifting his leg out of the water and easing the bandages away. The bard’s fingers fluttered anxiously, as delicate as newly woven lace above the harsh, dissolving blood. The scent of iron filled the air, mingling with the cinnamon and cloves of the mulled wine.

“This last layer will hurt, and then I’ve just got to pull the stitches. Stay still.”

Jaskier peeled away the final layer of bandages, and Geralt let out a breathy groan as fire streaked up his leg. He had been feeling better when he woke this morning, but now he seemed right back where he had started, sweating and shaking and staring dizzily up at the ceiling as the mulled wine turned his brain about in his head. His knee pulled, and there was a distinct, icy pain to it that could only come from broken bones. When he eyes the stitches, he saw that they were red and swollen and definitely not healing properly.

“This is a right mess,” Jaskier sighed, his voice sounding as though he were speaking through a long, hollow tube, “Perhaps Eist will have someone at his estate who can look to it better than I can. The bones seem to be healing, but the whole wound is so irritated that the stitches have pulled right out in some places. We need to get the swelling down if you’re ever going to stop bleeding.”

Such excessive swelling probably accounted for the tightness and the yanking pain that Geralt had been feeling. He was too muzzy and tired to dwell on it much, though. He floated, drifting in and out on pain and exhaustion as Jaskier picked apart his leg, pulling each stitch with a curse and frantic dabbing at his over-sensitive skin as blood gushed from the enflamed flesh. By the time the bard was done, Geralt was shaking harder than before, face dripping with sweat and feeling very red. Jaskier reached over and dabbed at his forehead.

“You’re doing well. All the stitches are out now, I just need to sew it shut again properly, and then I’ll get those bandages back on.”

“Mmm.” Geralt’s voice shook and quivered as though he had spent too long out in the cold, and he realized that his teeth were chattering, probably from the shock and pain.

“Oh, my dear,” Jaskier had suddenly transported himself behind Geralt’s head, which made the Witcher jump almost as much as the term of endearment did, “Do we need to stop for a bit? Come, let me hold you for a moment, just until you’re not shaking quite so badly. Just lean against me and rest.”

Geralt did. He was hurting all over, despite the wine dulling his senses. Some combination of sweat and tears brought on from squeezing his eyes so tightly shut dripped down his face, and he pressed into Jaskier without any real cognizance of how hard he was leaning until the bard fell with a thump against the floorboards, only barely managing to stabilize himself in time.

_You’re too heavy,_ the voice inside Geralt’s head admonished harshly, _He’ll never want to help you again if you treat him as nothing more than a glorified crutch._

When he tried to pull away, though, Jaskier’s arms wrapped around his forehead.

“Hush, don’t do that. You’re hurting, just let yourself rest. I was sitting on the balls of my feet, that’s the only reason I fell. Much more to do with my clumsiness than anything you took part in.”

Hmm. That was good. Or was it? Jaskier was still sitting on the floor, his trousers probably soaked through with the water that Geralt had splashed out of the bath during his ill-fated attempt to sit down under his own power. He couldn’t think. Everything was hazy and sore and he wanted to sleep, or feel better, or _anything_ to get away from this. Especially after he had been so close to feeling well again. The whole situation was nothing short of infuriating.

They stayed there for some time; though whether it was minutes or hours Geralt felt unsure. He slipped in and out of consciousness, sometimes to hear Jaskier singing and feeling the soft touch of the bard’s musical hands running through his hair. The amount of fondness that the man was willing to show was strange. Unnerving, even. But, at the moment, not entirely unwelcome. Eventually, Jaskier eased Geralt’s head back against the rim of the tub, and bandaged up his knee. The new bandages were soft, and the Witcher thought he must have purchased them at the market instead of just ripping up another old shirt. The fabric felt good against his painful, sensitive skin.

“Nearly there. Would you like me to wash your hair next, or should I bandage the burns on your arms and neck first?”

Too tired to consider, Geralt shrugged. The bandages on his burns were itchy and sore, but he had lived through worse. Had he been on his own, it was unlikely he would have even been conscious yet. No matter how he thought of it, this was such an improvement on his usual situation that he was entirely at a loss for how to proceed.

“Bandages…so the soap doesn’t get in them.” He sighed the words out, half asleep and feeling peaceful and warm despite the pain.

“Good idea. Lean forward for a moment, just let me get to your neck.”

Geralt did as he was bid, glad for Jaskier’s arm wrapped around his torso. It was the only thing stopping him from getting a sudden and unwelcome face full of water. Letting his heavy head droop, he felt the bandages unwind and unstick from the blistered burns, and heard the bard’s intake of breath when his wounded flesh was exposed to the air. Geralt himself had to suppress a shiver of pain as even the slightest ghost of air caused the skin to prickle with pain.

“I’ll get some salve and wrap these back up. Goddess, Geralt, this is horrific. I…I can’t understand. Why anyone would do such a thing.”

Geralt let out a humourless snort, watching with detached interest as the water under his nose rippled along with his exhale. The bath was more grey than clear now, with the amount of dirt and sweat and blood that had soaked off him in the water.

“Men will do more for less.”

“I suppose I know that all too well. I just don’t understand the impetus behind hurting someone who so clearly tries to help, does everything in his power to make things right and to leave as though he had never been there. Even if it’s done in the name of science, or whatever sick reasoning Corvin was using to allow himself to sleep at night.”

“That’s…not true.”

“Which part?”

“All of it.”

Jaskier’s salve-rubbing, which had been making Geralt’s pained breaths increase somewhat, stopped abruptly.

“We’ll have that conversation when you’re well again. I don’t fancy giving you a bollocking when you can barely hold your own head upright.”

Hmm. That was new. While the bard had never been timid, a week ago he never would have been so bold as to suggest such a thing. It was clear he had still been a little intimidated by the Witcher, and very unsure of his place at his side, even before Corvin’s magic had entrapped his mind. It was as though the ordeal they had been through had broken down some barrier between the two of them. And while the Geralt of a few weeks ago would have balked at such a development, now he wasn’t so sure. There was something comforting about Jaskier’s concerned harshness. It was as though he was actually interested enough in Geralt’s wellbeing to give him proper what-for about it. Not unlike his brothers at the keep, the only other people in his life who would have dared to say such a thing.

“Hmm.”

“Indeed. That’s your neck done and wrapped. Can I see your wrists?”

Geralt had barely noticed that the bard had wrapped the fresh, soft bandages around his neck again. The whole thing felt stiff, and the blistered portions were simultaneously numb on the surface and exceptionally painful underneath. The new bandages were thickly wrapped as well, and Geralt found they offered a welcome support to his listing head. Clearly, the bard was more intentional that he seemed.

Trying to lift his wrists away from the support of the bath proved more difficult than Geralt had anticipated. They had been balancing him, keeping him upright, and without their support he nearly pitched into the water all over again. Jaskier caught him, let him lean back on the bard’s chest. He made quick work of rubbing the salve into both wrists; the bandages had been practically falling off after so long spent soaking in the hot water. It was a relief to have them wrapped again, and Geralt found he was nearly asleep, sighing contentedly as the water lapped around his sore knee and up his bruised chest. Jaskier rubbed some soap along his body and through his hair, and in what seemed like very little time at all the bard was shaking his shoulder, murmuring for him to wake up. He roused with a little grunt of displeasure, and found that the water had gone cold sometime while he had been asleep.

“You’ll catch a cold on top of everything else, soaking in this water. I’ve left you for long enough. Come on, back to bed. You’ll need to get some rest if we’re to travel to Eist’s estate tomorrow.”

Damn. Geralt had almost forgotten about the mysterious invitation from the lord. His heart sank a bit. Though it was rather strange to admit, he was feeling very calm and safe here at the inn. No part of his aching body relished the idea of travelling again, even if it was by carriage. He hated the damn things almost as much as portals.

“It’ll be good,” Jaskier was continuing, apparently having sensed his reticence, “You’ll see. Recovering at a hunting lodge sounds far preferrable to staying here for another several weeks until you can ride properly again. Once you’re out of your cups and well rested you’ll feel better about it.”

“Hmm.” Geralt had forgotten how drunk he was. He turned his head from side to side, just to make sure that he was still intoxicated. The room shifted oddly before his eyes, and he subsided back against the tub. Jaskier chuckled.

“Come on, up you get. You were feeling so much better this morning. Perhaps a nap is all you need.”

Geralt wanted to argue that he needed a fair bit more than a nap to get back to feeling like himself again, but he supposed it would be a start. He was terribly, embarrassingly tired. Especially after having slept until the water in the bath had gone cold.

Jaskier braced a shoulder under his arm again, and got him standing on legs that were far too wobbly, one of them completely incapacitated. Surprised, Geralt felt Jaskier lift him up most of the way, until his legs were draped over one of the bard’s arms and the other was curled about his back. He shot him a sleepy but shocked glance.

“What, you think because I spend all my time strumming a lute, I’m not capable of lifting anything heavier? My dear Witcher, I spent my youth training with some of the finest sword masters this side of the Yaruga. And they taught me how to keep my strength up as well.”

It made sense, Geralt supposed, when he devoted a little bit more thought to it. He had known from Jaskier’s delicate mannerisms and the inflections in his speech that he was a nobleman, though he had never alluded to as much before their escape from Errowhal. And he had to admit, with his knee feeling as though it was on fire, it was a relief to not have to worry about making the short walk back to the bed.

Jaskier deposited him on sheets which appeared to have been freshly changed again, probably while Geralt was sleeping in the bath. They smelled of fresh linen, and the scent almost overcame the various other smells of injury and illness that floated about the room like cloud. Geralt sighed as he subsided into them, comfortable with the new bandages and the crisp sheets and the warm crackling of the fire. Jaskier helped him pull the quilt up to his chin, fussed over him a moment so his sore wrists were resting atop the blanket. Geralt wanted to roll his eyes, to say that all this was unnecessary, but he was already mostly gone. Sounds were blurring together, and his eyes slid slowly shut with an inexorable weight that was impossible for him to fight. He drifted away on a haze of pain and mulled wine, with the bard’s voice still chattering away softly in the background.

The next time he worked his way fully back to awareness, Geralt felt warm and more comfortable than he had in days. It was the sort of comfort that only came with recent wakefulness, where he didn’t want to move his limbs, and where the blankets were just warm enough to keep the chill at bay without being stifling. There was a marked absence of blinding pain as well; more just a pounding ache in his knee and the soft pulsing of the burns. He sighed, not wanting to roll over, feeling weak but content and better than he remembered when he fell asleep.

He allowed himself to drift for a bit longer, until he heard the door to their room open, at which point he pried his gritty eyes open, blinking tiredly at the light and the instant ache in his head.

“Oh, Geralt! It’s good to see you awake.”

“Mmm…afternoon, bard.” The light outside the window was just so, and the noises coming from the tavern downstairs had a distinctly afternoonish attitude to them.

“Indeed. How are you feeling?”

“Better.”

Jaskier’s face lit up a bit at this, like a lantern that had suddenly had its shutters pulled back. The bard was so full of sunshine, Geralt thought. It had been wrong to see his face without it. Hmm. Perhaps he still was feeling a bit out of it. Normally he was better at keeping such thoughts buried away from his conscious mind.

“That’s good, Geralt. So good. I…I was very worried. Every time I thought you were on the mend, you just seemed to take another turn for the worse. You will be alright, won’t you?”

Geralt nodded, still feeling a bit drowsy, the hot heaviness of a deep sleep dragging heavily on his limbs. Jaskier, who had been sitting in a chair near the bed, pushed it back with his hands and came to sit gingerly on the edge of the mattress, making it dip a bit. He let a small smile grace his face, and his slender hand, almost elven looking, brushed over Geralt’s brow.

“Your fever finally seems to have completely left you. That’s good, seeing as how Eist sent a missive to the innkeep. He plans to send a carriage for us tonight.”

Geralt grimaced and shut his eyes again. In his sleepy state of half-wakefulness, he had nearly forgotten about Eist’s invitation. He was almost at peace here, resting and his knee comfortably propped up on a mound of cushions. It had been ages since he had last felt so well during such a bout of injury and illness. Normally, such a situation would have found him huddled under a tree, crawling to the nearest creek when he ran out of water, if he was able. Not a bone in his body wanted to leave this place and travel today. But needs must; he could not afford to insult a Jarl of Skellige. His influence, especially as the husband of Queen Calanthe, he wielded too much influence to be ignored.

“Hmm.”

“I know you probably don’t feel up to travelling yet. But it’s just a short carriage ride, and we’ll be so much safer there.” The tone of relief in Jaskier’s voice made Geralt open his eyes again. The bard looked pale, and there were bags under his eyes. His hand shook ever so slightly as he brushed at Geralt’s sweaty hair.

“What is it? Your heart just sped up.”

Jaskier blinked at Geralt, and then put a hand to his chest in a surreptitious gesture. He sighed.

“Nothing for you to concern yourself with. I’ll just be happy to get even further away from Errowhal. Every time I think about going to that place…my whole body goes cold. I want to kill him, Geralt. With every fibre of my being.”

A sort of softness entered Geralt’s chest. It was an unfamiliar sensation, and if his wrists hadn’t been so sore, he might have reached up himself, to make sure he had not simply melted away. A strange urge to make sure the bard was alright surfaced in his mind. Once again, a sensation that was so unfamiliar that Geralt was unsure how to react. Even with his brothers, he knew they were able to care for themselves. But Jaskier was different. Someone who he could and needed to make sure was alright.

“Tell me.” He tried not to speak too gruffly, but it came across a bit more forceful than he had intended. Jaskier looked a bit taken aback, and he rubbed a hand through his sweaty hair, looking suddenly very tired.

“You’re not well. You still look like death warmed over. I will tell you, Geralt, but not now. You need to gather as much strength as you can before we go to Eist’s estate. Get some rest, and I’ll bring you something to eat. I got some more food while you were sleeping.”

That explained some of the warm, heady smell that had appeared in the room since Geralt’s awakening. He was too tired to pursue his line of questioning much more concerning Jaskier’s apparent distress, though he vowed to come back to it later. For now, the thought of food was overwhelming, nauseating. Geralt sagged as Jaskier went and fetched a tray, snagging a small side table with his toe on the way back over and dragging it next to the bed.

“Just bread with butter, I’m afraid. They didn’t have anything else I thought you’d be able to stomach, and based on your current colouring, I suppose I was right in my assumptions.”

Geralt swallowed convulsively, knowing he probably looking more than a little ill. Jaskier wrapped an arm around his back, and helped him lean back against a few pillows on the headboard. The toast was passed to him, and Geralt lifted it with shaky hands, taking a few bites before letting his arm drop back into his lap. His wounds were burning, and he sighed through his nose frustratedly. The bard picked up the discarded bread and held it out to him; not making any comments about Geralt’s weakness despite the Witcher’s flushed cheeks and tired, frustrated expression.

“it’s fine. You’re still weak. I can be our little secret.” Jaskier gave a small, conspiratorial smile, though Geralt could still hear his heart pounding far faster than normal in his chest. It occurred to him how good the bard was at putting up a front. Without his physical tells, Geralt doubted he would have been able to tell that anything was bothering the other man.

By the time he was done the piece of bread, Geralt felt absolutely stuffed and very sick again. Not in the hot, heavy way that his fever had caused, but just as though his body was shocked it was receiving treatment other than brutality again. It left him shaking all over, though, and Jaskier helped him lie back down, easing his sore leg down the bed, resting a pillow underneath his burned neck. The bard checked the bandages on his neck and wrists for any signs of infection, and expressed his pleasure that they were no longer bleeding through quite so frequently. The Witcher, too tired to comment and feeling supremely frustrated and embarrassed at how often he found himself needing to sleep, just nodded drowsily, trying to make a mental list of how their things would need to be packed for the journey to Eist’s, mostly to keep himself awake.

When Jaskier was done fussing with the bandages, he turned to Geralt with a slight look of consternation about him.

“We’re going to need to get you dressed before we leave this evening, but I know your skin is probably still terribly sensitive from the fever. Shall I get everything packed first, and then help you, or would you rather do it now?”

Geralt was terribly sore from the fever still, and his body had not yet managed to replenish all the blood he had lost, which left him shivering underneath a quilt and several furs that the bard must have had brought up. His skin felt as though it had been given a thorough going-over with sandpaper.

“Best to get it done now. Then I can help you.”

Jaskier raised an incredulous eyebrow.

“You can help me by lying in that bed and not popping all the stitches that I’ve only just redone. And by not re-breaking the ankle which has barely begun to heal. You’re in no fit state to be walking anywhere right now.”

“Give me things to fold, then.”

“Geralt, you’re ill, barely recovered from a fever that would have taken your life if you were an ordinary man,” Jaskier’s brows were beginning to crease with something that looked to be more than just frustration, “You could have _died_ , easily, and there would have been nothing I could have done to help you beyond make sure that your final moments weren’t too painful. So, please, let me pack our things and get everything ready to go. Think of it as a sign of my gratitude that you managed to remain alive.”

Geralt stared down at his shaking hands. It had been a long time since he had felt such a heat settle in his stomach. It was almost shameful.

“Very well. But I’ll get dressed now, to give you more time to get our things ready.”

He held out a trembling arm for his clothes, but Jaskier kept them draped over his own arm and approached the bed cautiously, settling gingerly on the edge of the mattress again.

“This will hurt. Just let me help you with it, alright? I managed to find a shirt in the market that was made out of silk; I thought it would be a bit less rough on your skin. And some softer pants as well.”

There it was again. That strange warmth that seemed to flare up spontaneously in Geralt’s stomach whenever Jaskier spoke. Perhaps he was still fevered, after all. Reluctantly, he nodded, sagging back against the pillows and trying to keep his shivers under control as the bard gently pulled back the blankets, apologizing profusely all the while.

Later, Geralt would never be able to recall exactly how they had managed to get him dressed. The moment he first tried to lift his injured leg, he hazed out on pain so intense it made him wonder if someone had applied a hot poker to his knee. He had already been shaking badly, and a few times he felt Jaskier stop dressing him to place hands on his tremulous shoulders, bracing him for a moment. For the most part, though, he gasped and clenched his fists, trying not to turn and push fitfully against the straw mattress like a child. His knee was burning, his ankle throbbed, every inch of his skin felt as though it was being burned and frozen at the same time. But it would do him no good to complain. In fact, it would probably only cause the bard further upset, which was not something Geralt wanted risk. He had not forgotten about Jaskier’s elevated pulse earlier, about how the mere mention of Corvin had made his eyes turn down with something akin to pure terror and heartbreak.

When Geralt woke from his dizzy, half-asleep state, he could tell that it was near to evening time. He blinked, rubbed at his eyes with the backs of his hands, winced at the way his skin felt far too tight everywhere, as though it had been stretched taut over the frame of his bones. Jaskier must have been able to dress him; there was a light silk shirt dancing gently against his chest and a pair of loose pants pushing against his sore, throbbing knee. He winced; it felt as though the stitches were about to burst again. Hot, heavy blood was trickling surely down the side of his knee as well.

The door creaked open then, and Geralt nearly jumped out of his skin before realizing it was just the bard. It was with a certain degree of panic that he noticed his swords were no longer in the room.

“Oh, Geralt,” it was the closest thing that Geralt had heard to a sob come from the bard’s mouth, “You’re awake. Are you fevered? Sweet Melitele, you had me worried there.”

Jaskier smacked a hand onto Geralt’s forehead and felt about for a fever, sighing when he felt nothing more than the cold clamminess of illness and pain. Geralt shut his eyes, relieved, heart still pounding a bit at the thought of an intruder somehow gaining access to the room and him not having immediate access to his swords. Normally, he could have taken someone on even without them, but at the moment he didn’t fancy his chances, swords or otherwise.

“I’m fine,” he mumbled, still feeling a bit bleary and tired, “Just exhausted. Where’re our things?”

“Downstairs, being loaded into Eist’s carriage. His men arrived early, to make sure our packs and everything were safely in the hold before we left. We…we’ll need to go downstairs soon, if you’re alright to. Don’t worry, it’s late at night. There’s no one in the tavern, just Eist’s men, and they can help you if you want.”

Geralt winced and pushed himself upright, tipping sideways into Jaskier as a sudden rush of blood to his head caught him off guard. His knee twinged, but he ignored it.

“’M fine. Just help me with the stairs.”

“Are you quite sure? Geralt, you’ve gone all pale.”

Swallowing and nodding, Geralt slung his less painful arm over the bard’s shoulder. _Don’t lean to heavily on him,_ a small voice in his head reprimanded, _you’ll crush him. You’re much too large._

He tried to take his own weight, but as soon as he tried to move his knee, stars splashed before his eyes. Jaskier sighed, and gently eased him back onto the bed.

“I’m going to carry you down the stairs, alright? Just like we did earlier with the bath. I’m sure one of Eist’s men can find you a branch or something to use as a crutch, so I don’t have to do the same thing when we get to the manor.”

Geralt was horribly dizzy again, and he felt incredibly frustrated. Every time he awoke finally feeling a bit better, he seemed to find himself reduced back to a trembling mess of pain by his damned knee. Something about it wasn’t healing properly, and was keeping him from regaining his strength. For the first time, he felt a spark of relief that they were going to Eist’s hunting lodge. Lords were frequently injured on hunting expeditions. Surely, there would be a healer with the Jarl who would be able to do something for the bones he could feel grinding inside his leg, keeping him from getting any peace or rest. He panted and clung to Jaskier, feeling himself nod as though through a haze. The world looked almost grey around him, as though the colour had simply drained away along with the blood that had poured out of him upon their escape from Errowhal.

“Come on then, lean against me, that’s it. We’ll get you settled in the carriage, and then once we get to Eist’s manor I’m sure there’ll be someone who can take a look at your knee and see what they can do. It’s bleeding again, as though the stitches ripped. I’m not sure what else I can do for it.”

There was resignation and fear in the bard’s voice, and Geralt could feel his pulse thundering under his ear. He was glad they were of a similar mind. Surely, once Eist saw what had happened, he would be willing to offer them some help. Something was definitely not right with the wound, and Geralt was beginning to grow afraid, in a bleary sort of way, that they had left it for too long.


	8. A Winding Road

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt and Jaskier set off to Eist's hunting estate. The trip, as one might expect, is not an easy one. Realizations are made, and quickly ignored or abandoned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Thanks so much all for your wonderful patience as I tried to sort out getting this chapter updated. I apologize for any typos within, I'm in the midst of ANOTHER huge move and didn't have time to read it over before posting. So if any of you catch anything, please tell me! 
> 
> As always, thank you so much for reading. Any comments and constructive feedback is always appreciated and valued, as are each and every one of you for taking the time out of yours days to have a read. This story truly is turning into a beast, so buckle up for a pretty long ride!!

Jaskier half thought that Geralt had fallen asleep in his arms before they had made it down the stairs. It made him worried, the way the Witcher curled into his chest, breaths still tight with pain. One of his hands was clenched in the bard’s shirt, knuckles white and bloodless. His knee was so swollen that it had nearly doubled in size, and he was definitely lighter and easier to carry than he would have been before their captivity. Not that the bard would ever have considered even attempting such a thing before the events in Errowhal. Since then, there seemed to be some sort of mutual trust that had grown between the two of them. And though Jaskier realized now that he had always been fond of Geralt, always harboured some sort of warmth for the other man in his heart, he was beginning to wonder if perhaps the feelings were reciprocated.

When they reached the bottom of the stairs, one of Eist’s men, a tall bear of a fellow with a red beard and a ruddy face, looked up from where he stood guard by the door. Upon seeing what the bard was doing, he hurried to help, heavy Skelligan accent bringing back memories for Jaskier of travelling to the Isles with his sisters and mother when he was a boy. His father had always been too busy for such frivolities, and as such those trips were some of the fondest memories of the bard’s childhood.

“D’you need a hand there, lad? You look far too slight for such a task.”

“I’m fine, thank you,” Jaskier hadn’t realized until help was offered just how little he relished the idea of anyone else holding Geralt right now, when he was too weak and tired to give his assent, “I may need some help getting him into the carriage. And a few blankets, for the road. It’s a chill night, and he’s lost far too much blood.”

The man nodded, responsive to the bard’s tight tone. Motioning to a few other soldiers clad only in leather armour, they began their preparations, some moving outside and a few gathering up the final odds and ends that had been left about the tavern. The innkeep, who was polishing glasses behind the bar, raised a hand to Jaskier, who nodded his thanks. He had already been down earlier to pay the fee for their room, along with a generous tip for the man’s kindness and willingness to make sure they were comfortable and well looked after. His ruddy face had split into a wide grin at the sight of the coin, and he had thanked Jaskier profusely, saying that it had been ages since they had last had outsiders come through looking for a room. Apparently, news of Corvin’s brutality had spread quickly amongst travelling merchants and peddlers, and they had been avoiding the region for fear of being captured.

Now, with the hope that perhaps a small force could be gathered to storm Errowhal, the innkeep looked more jovial than he had in the whole time Jaskier and Geralt had been under his roof. Upon consultation with the alderman, it had been decided any coup would wait until Geralt was well again, since he was both the most experienced warrior and the one with the most intimate knowledge of the tunnels beneath the keep. The innkeep gave the two of them a small salute on their way out, more of a send-off than a goodbye. Jaskier knew they would be back. He just hoped that when they were, Geralt would once again be well enough to walk in under his own power instead of cradled in the bard’s arms.

Stepping outside into the night, Jaskier was immediately glad for the warm cloak that he had been given by Eist’s commander. It was made of leather, lined with ermine fur. Geralt had a similar one, wrapped around his trembling shoulders in a paltry effort to ward off the cold. It was a biting night, with the moon hanging clear and bright and giving off a pale echo of itself across the shuddering lake. An icy wind swept straight down the mountain slopes, cutting through even the warmest of layers, making Jaskier’s lips numb and dry feeling. He shuddered and clutched Geralt to his chest, trying to hurry as quickly across the cobbles as he could, the heels of his boots clicking loudly in the wide silence of the night. One of the Jarl’s men opened the small carriage door for him, and he clambered inside to discover a far cozier setting than the one outside.

A small lantern was hanging from the roof, partially shuttered but still casting a warm yellow glow about the interior of the carriage. Its walls were panelled with rich red velvet, as were the benches and the floor, and the small, gilded windows had been shuttered as well, to keep in the warmth. A few furs were spread out across the benches, as well as some pillows. Jaskier couldn’t help but smile and hug himself a bit. He loved travelling by carriage. The tiny, enclosed space, warm and protected from the outside chill, was both romantic and incredibly snug.

Geralt was more awake now; the cold seemed to have revived him a bit. He was leaned against the carriage wall, sweating a bit. Immediately, Jaskier noticed what the problem was, and hurried to prop his leg up against some of the pillows, situating him so he was sitting along the length of the bench, his back propped against one wall and his foot against the other. Settled with a few pillows and furs, Geralt breathed a sigh of relief, and offered the bard a watery smile.

“You have my thanks,” he gestured awkwardly, pale cheeks colouring a bit, “For…everything you’ve done. It’s no enviable task, looking after someone in my state. And definitely not one you chose. You…I…well, I appreciate it.”

The speech left Geralt deeply flushed and staring awkwardly at his bandaged wrists as he twisted his hands fitfully in his lap. Jaskier gave a small smile, and reached over to steady his friend as the carriage lurched forwards.

“You’re wrong, you know. When you say I didn’t choose this. Perhaps I was a bit naïve, when I first began travelling with you. Talking of heroics and heartbreak, and onion and the whole lot. But I chose more than that. I knew that this might happen, and before I had even grown fond of you, I was prepared to help you in whatever way you needed. But…I have grown fond of you. Very, Geralt.”

Now it was Jaskier who was flushed and awkward, picking at a nonexistent bit of fuzz on the velvet-coated wall of the carriage. He felt all sorts of uncomfortable, and was as unfamiliar with the sensation as it seemed that Geralt was with the idea of allowing someone else to care for him. He shifted a bit to and fro, ran a hand through his dirty, messy hair, for all the good it did him. It had been weeks since he had bathed, and he felt rather like a well-greased pig.

When the bard finally managed to get his strange embarrassment under control enough to look up, he found himself staring directly into Geralt’s amber eyes. They glowed brighter than normal in the shifting light of the lantern, making him look even more feline that usual. There was a strange quirk to his face. Not quite a smile, and not quite a frown either, but a sort of snarl that seemed to be derived from him not being able to make up his mind about which facial expression suited the situation best. However, he extended a hand.

“I…have grown to trust you.”

Jaskier stared at the extended hand for a moment, gaping. Geralt seemed to be about to snatch it back when he finally reached out and took it, supporting the sore wrist gently in his lap. He knew this was probably as close as Geralt was going to come to saying he was fond of the bard as well. His words made Jaskier’s chest swell with some sort of tide of emotion, strange and unfamiliar in the sort of heart-pounding way that he associated with waking up from the edge of the sleep with the feeling that he was falling through space.

“I…um – thank you.”

“Hmm.”

Seemingly having said his bit, Geralt leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. There were tight lines of pain etching his face in sharp relief, hollowed out even further by the ever-changing cast of the lantern. Every time the carriage hit a bump in the road (of which there were many; clearly the taxes in this region were not high enough to pay for the upkeep of less-used thoroughfares), his hands clenched, one over the furs and the other against Jaskier’s palm. The bard was surprised he had yet to let go.

After a little while, during which it became apparent that Geralt had fallen into a sort of uneasy sleep, Jaskier realized the Witcher had no intention of letting go. What a strange thing. Jaskier had never seen the man share any sort of physical touch with anyone beyond what was absolutely necessary. The warmth and the swooping feeling in his stomach expanded a little more, pressing against his ribs. Gently, he adjusted Geralt’s hand in his lap and began, cautiously at first, to stroke a thumb across the Witcher’s rough, calloused knuckles. Geralt shifted a bit in his sleep, tensing as they jolted over another bump, then settled, sighing tiredly. His face was pulled into a frown of discomfort. Nervously, but with a bit more confidence now, Jaskier continued stroking his hand softly. He hummed a scrap of melody, something he had been working on to accompany the bit of verse he had composed during their moonlit flight from Errowhal. The bumps and jolts in the road disturbed it somewhat, but he thought it had promise. Perhaps, when Geralt was well again and all this business was behind them, he would turn it into a proper ballad. Something sweet and soft and low, to sing in the wee hours of the morning when most tavern patrons were too deep into their cups to care about what the lyrics said. It was a song full of longing, Jaskier realized. Though what he was longing for, he had no idea. The light of the moon, perhaps, and nothing more. After days spent in Corvin’s dungeons, wondering if he would ever breathe the fresh air again, it didn’t seem like a stretch. But there was something more. Some of the lyrics, which had come to him in a flowing, natural pace, as though fed through him by some other mind, did not speak just of the moon. The was a yearning of the heart there as well, a slowly softening spot that was begging to be held. Perhaps it had just been too long since he had last been intimate with someone. Geralt rarely made time to stop for such trivialities, and since they had spent the last several weeks before their captivity in the wilds, there had been no chance for it anyways.

Yes, that was all. A longing for human intimacy, nothing more. It couldn’t be more personal than that. Though perhaps his evolving friendship with his travelling companion had helped it along some, reminded him what it was like to care about someone and have them trust him in return. It was a welcome warmth after so many months of cold and confusion.

Jaskier did not know how long he drifted, half asleep, lulled by the motion of the carriage. A few times, his focused thoughts became unmoored, and whenever this happened, his mind always returned to a picture of Corvin’s face. Those cruel, high brows and cheekbones, the lilting tone of his musical voice. A pale, thin hand reaching out to drag Geralt from him, to break him apart piece by piece and to inspect with nothing more than cold, clinical interest even as the Witcher still lived and gasped in pain. Despite the chill of the night and the vague cold beginning to permeate the carriage, Jaskier roused fully to find himself sweating and panting. He wiped a hand over his brow, cleared his throat.

_Simple weakness._ It was his father’s voice in his head, cold and calculating, one eyebrow arched in aristocratic disapproval while his fingers drummed monotonously on the armrest of the high-backed chair he had always kept in his study. _Your mind is lacking in complexity, too narrow to purge itself of this boyish fear of everything that could and might cause you harm. I see even the hundreds of crowns I spent to send you to university have been wasted in an attempt to broaden your unbroadenable mind._

Even though he knew it to be nothing more than a figment of his overactive imagination, Jaskier was already put out by his dreamlike encounter with Corvin. He dropped Geralt’s had surreptitiously, backpedaling into the wall of the carriage, anything to carry him far away from that voice. It was dripping with shame and disgust, and Jaskier could practically feel a hot flush creep up his cheeks as he was once again reminded of his weakness, of the fact that he couldn’t even purge his own damned father from his mind.

As soon as he stirred violently and dropped Geralt’s hand, the Witcher stirred, rousing with a slight grimace and a distinct look of confusion as he woke to a different place than the room where they had spent the last several days. His drowsy amber eyes settled on Jaskier, and his brows furrowed.

“What is it?” His words were slurred and sleepy, and the bard felt a pang of guilt that had absolutely nothing to do with Corvin’s magic for waking him. He looked exhausted and pale, and it was clear that the journey was causing him a great deal of pain. Both his hands were fisted so tightly in the fur that bits of it were beginning to drift to the floor; a little flurry of animal hair raining down on the crushed velvet.

“Ah, nothing. Just a bad dream. Go back to sleep.”

“Hmm,” Geralt chewed his dry lip for a second, seemingly on the edge of making a choice and unable to make up his mind about it, “You can come sit with me. If you wish. I know…contact calms you. Your heart is racing.”

Jaskier thought his insides would melt at the statement. He sagged back into the wall, concerned because he had never heard Geralt be so open about his observations, and also extremely flattered that the Witcher had deigned him someone worthwhile enough to comfort.

“That…is quite possibly the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me. Are you sure you’re not still fevered?”

He leaned over and placed a hand on Geralt’s brow, but it was alarmingly cold, sweat dripping from his temples. He was shivering a bit as well; recovering from extreme blood loss. The Witcher let out a sleepy-sounding laugh, his face upturned a little bit in the closest thing Jaskier had ever seen to a smile.

“No. Perhaps a bit tired. But I can hear your heart thundering from here, and you’ve given me all the furs. I don’t want to make the rest of this journey with a frozen corpse.”

Ah. That was more in line with Geralt’s usual grim reasoning. Rather relieved that the Witcher hadn’t completely taken leave of his senses, Jaskier cautiously sidled over to sit by Geralt’s feet, pulling a tiny bit of a white wolf pelt over his legs. Geralt shifted a bit, wincing at the strain on his knee and ankle, and pushed a bit more of the fur onto Jaskier’s lap.

“How long have we been on the road?”

“Several hours. I expect we’ll be there soon. Are you in much pain?”

“Damned bumpy road.”

“Mhmm. That’s fair. We’ll get you to bed as soon as we get to Eist’s lodge, yes? You look exhausted. Those lines under your eyes could’ve been painted on with a brush.”

Geralt quirked an eyebrow, and Jaskier grinned tentatively. His racing heart had calmed somewhat, his fear of Corvin and the fact that they might not be entirely safe yet overcome by Geralt’s newfound trust and easiness around him. Though it could just be the wounds making his tongue light and his smiles flow easier. Jaskier hoped it was something more. For whatever reason, the longing in his chest seemed to have dissipated somewhat.

They rode on in companionable silence for some time, Jaskier leaving his hand on Geralt’s leg and squeezing softly every time they hit a bump in the road that made the Witcher’s breath hitch. He did nothing to kick away the bard’s hand, and Jaskier was surprised, but content for all that. He leaned back against the wall, and they both dozed for a while, until the carriage rattled to a halt, horses’ hooves suddenly clattering against cobbles instead of thudding dully on a dirt track.

“Geralt, wake up, we’ve stopped.” Jaskier gently shook the Witcher’s shoulder, smiling fondly when he stirred, though he quickly schooled his expression when amber eyes once again flicked open, blinking sleepily.

“Mmm…we’ve stopped.” Geralt pushed himself upright, wincing.

“Indeed.”

There was a clattering of boots on the cobbles, and the door was pulled open by the same soldier with whom Jaskier had spoken earlier. He motioned outside, where there was now a pale cast of dawn in the air. It was freezing outside, and Jaskier gathered the fur tighter around himself to ward from the cold.

“Welcome to Aer Clannagh. The Jarl is out on a hunt at the moment, but he should return with the sunrise. He invites you to get yourselves acquainted with the rooms and grounds, and asks that you join him for dinner tonight.”

Geralt looked far too tired to attend any sort of dinner, but Jaskier knew that arguing with a foot soldier about this would get him absolutely nowhere. The man was nothing more than a go-between, relaying orders. Perhaps he could find the Jarl or one of his servants before dinner, and reschedule for when Geralt didn’t look like he was about to faint from blood loss and exhaustion. For the moment, he nodded stiffly.

“Could we have some help with our things? I’m afraid my companion isn’t well at the moment.”

The soldier turned and immediately went about gathering packs and saddlebags, and untethering Roach, who had made the journey to Aer Clannagh tied loosely to the back of the carriage. Jaskier looked over at Geralt, who had paled considerably, and was shivering all over again.

“Shall we go inside? Perhaps find some rest on a soft feather bed, surrounded by trophies from the Jarl’s successful hunts? This looks like the type of place for curling up in front of a fire and sleeping away the day.”

“Hmm. Only to you.”

“Ah, yes. I always forget that in forests you see only monsters, and in old manors you see only ghosts and godlings and all sorts of other supernatural beasts. You truly do live a half-life, Geralt. There is so much you experience and yet lack the ability to give yourself the permission to enjoy.”

Geralt just blinked tiredly and pushed himself upright on wrists that were probably still far too sore to be used for such vigorous activity. He hauled his bad leg so that it was stretched out at an awkward diagonal in front of him and managed to get into a semi-standing position on his good leg before hobbling haphazardly out of the carriage. He clung to the door once he was outside, and Jaskier was quick to slip underneath his arm, grunting as he bore most of the Witcher’s considerable weight. Luckily, he had had the presence of mind to snatch a fur up out of the carriage before they had disembarked, and he wrapped it gently around Geralt’s trembling shoulders. Clearly, his blood did not replenish any faster than a normal man’s, mutations or otherwise.

“Come on, out of the cold. There’s no use standing about gaping, is there?” As much as Jaskier tried to put on a businesslike front, he couldn’t help staring when he finally had a chance to look up from the snow-dusted cobbles. The Jarl’s hunting lodge was enormous; brown-tanned logs the size of several men making up its base, so wide in girth that if they had been hollow, Geralt could have ridden Roach through them without scraping his head or shoulders. The whole building was three storeys tall, and the entrance spanned all those storeys, a huge arched sort of covering under which was a chandelier made entirely of stag’s antlers. Several enormous candles guttered in it, shifting this way and that in the wind. More antlers were placed up between the windows, decorations showing not only Eist’s prowess as a hunter, but also his exceptional wealth that he could afford the tax on so many beasts. Though, Jaskier supposed, being married to Calanthe must mean that Eist experienced no shortage of coin.

Geralt had lifted his head and was looking about too, although he didn’t seem nearly as awed as Jaskier felt. The bard supposed that this was not the first time he had been to such a place, and he had definitely collected more impressive trophies than a few stag skulls.

“Come, we can admire the architecture later. You need to go to bed.”

The fact that the Witcher didn’t object showed just how exhausted he really was. His pallor was increasing by the moment, as was his shivering, and Jaskier was very relieved when they were ushered inside by a young man with dark hair and pale skin. After being guided through several heavily carpeted rooms full of plush red armchairs and up a set of stairs decorated by an impressive bannister onto which was carved an owl, which stared down upon them with predatory eyes, they were deposited and left alone in a large stateroom. By this point, Geralt’s toes were dragging on the floor; the one leg that had still been able to take his weight was shaking and buckling underneath him. Jaskier mostly carried him to the bed, unpinned his cloak, pulled off his boots. Geralt sank back into the pillows with a sigh of relief, hands clutching at his sore knee.

“There we are. Ah, and look, Eist must have left out some clothing for us. Would you like something a bit more comfortable before you rest?”

The Witcher’s eyes were already half-lidded, sliding shut. Apparently, even Jaskier had underestimated just how exhausting the night of travel would be for him. However, he nodded, doing his best to struggle out of his pants and shirt without actually having to take any of his weight off the bed. The bard watched him for a moment before coming to his rescue, a vaguely amused smile gracing his face.

“This is ridiculous. Let me help you, there’s no way you’ll manage to get your pants over your knee without an extra pair of hands anyways,” Geralt flopped back and Jaskier set to work, watching with concern as the Witcher drifted in and out of sleep before he even had his shirt off, “I take it that you’re not feeling well enough to go to dinner tonight, then?”

“Hmm…tomorrow?”

“Very funny. Give it a week, perhaps. I’ll see if I can corner Eist or one of his servants when he gets back. There must be a healer somewhere in this place who can see to your knee better than I could.”

“Did fine. ‘S just…sore.” Geralt’s words were slurred almost beyond intelligence again. Jaskier slipped a white cotton shirt over his head and guided his arms gently into the sleeves. He made sure to leave the laces at the top undone, knowing that the wound at his neck must still be itching and paining him terribly as it did its slow work healing.

“Well, whatever your definition of sore, I’m sure you’ll still be feeling that way for days, and anything we can do to help you get better faster is a good thing as far as I’m concerned. Especially when it has to do with something as essential as your leg, which you _require_ for your profession. So, let me find you a healer and get you out of attending a state dinner I’m sure you would have hated anyways, while you sleep off a day of hard travel and the last of that fever.”

“Mmm…” Geralt rolled on his side, wincing, and Jaskier quickly propped a pillow under his leg again, and pulled the quilt up to his shoulder, “Thank you, bard.”

Geralt was still shivering, and only his head and the top of his white-clad shoulder were visible above the quilt. Jaskier realized he had never seen Geralt in any clothes other than his usual blacks, and thought that white suited him quite nicely. It brought out a different side of his complexion; the slight warmth in his cheeks and the pink marbling in his ivory hands. Fondly, he reached over and tucked a strand of sweaty hair behind the Witcher’s ear. Warmth filled him even more when Geralt curled a bit closer in on himself, pulling up the blanket and nearly snuggling into its warmth. He looked cold and tired and pale, but perhaps with the help of a competent healer and a few days’ rest in a proper feather bed, he would be up and able to lead their campaign against Corvin sooner than they had hoped.

Lost in his thoughts, Jaskier realized he hadn’t even asked Geralt if he was willing to go back, to help some ragged band of villagers exterminate the sadistic lord. But, as he watched the hitching rise and fall of the Witcher’s breathing, the way he shivered and shuddered a bit under the blankets, Jaskier had no doubt that he would. He was not so different. Not different like Jaskier had been raised to believe. And though he might be loath to admit it, the bard knew that he would not turn his back on people who needed him.

It took a moment, the next time Geralt awoke, to understand where he was and how he had come to be there. All he knew was that he felt sore, but that his headache had diminished somewhat, and that all around he was feeling more coherent and better than he had in days. Stretching cautiously and wincing when stiffened muscles and aching stitches pulled, he opened his eyes and took in a rich canopy on the bed above him, tapestries decorating the walls on either side. The whole room was gilt and dripping with riches.

Casting back his memory, he realized he had a vague recollection of arriving at this place in a carriage, of (for some reason) holding Jaskier’s hand while he slept fitfully during their voyage. Geralt felt his cheeks colour. What a craven thing to do, latching on to someone else’s support. Surely, Jaskier did not want that. Now that he no longer felt so fevered, and the grinding pain of his burns had receded a little, he would have to be more careful. No more forgetting himself in front of the bard. It was lucky enough that the man was still here, caring for him, after all that Geralt had put him through over the last several days.

Even though his burns were itching less, Geralt’s knee was still aching with fiery intensity, and his head throbbed with every beat of his pulse. Tiredly, he rolled on his side, pressing his cheek into a cooler patch on the pillow. The room was empty and silent in the way that only heavily carpeted places can be; as though the outside world were muffled and shut away by layers of finery. Geralt wondered briefly, groggily, where Jaskier had gone. Perhaps, now that they had arrived somewhere relatively safe, he had finally taken his leave. Not that Geralt would blame him. No matter how many times the Witcher awkwardly tried to find the words to express his gratitude, he felt it would never be enough to make up for all that Jaskier had done for him since their escape.

He dozed for a while, half asleep and feeling warm and heavy and finally a little more comfortable, though his leg still twitched and he was still very cold from blood loss. With all his potions having been taken from him by Corvin, there was no way in which he would be able to replenish his blood faster than an ordinary man. He shuddered to think what the elf would do with those potions, left so readily at his disposal. Best not to imagine it. Geralt felt too tired to think overmuch about it anyways.

He was nearly all the way asleep when the door finally creaked slowly open. Mind drifting, even the gentleness of the well-oiled hinges made Geralt jump, pushing himself up before sagging against the copious amounts of pillows. Blood rushed to his head.

“Goddess, Geralt, it’s only me,” Jaskier’s voice burst forth as though he was shocked to find the Witcher awake at all, “Hey, easy, just lie back. You’ll only hurt yourself doing this.”

Geralt realized that he was still fighting to stay upright, despite the fact that he was too bleary feeling to really keep his balance. Feeling better, yes, but perhaps not quite well enough to be up and about yet. He suppressed a frustrated sigh at the thought of spending more days flat on his back in bed, feeling the pain and pressure and pull of every wound.

Jaskier was at his side now, easing him back against a pile of cushions that allowed him to remain at least partially sitting up. His head swam, and next thing he knew it was supported against something warm and breathing, a quick pulse pressing a gentle staccato against his ear. A hand ran through his hair.

“Just take a moment to catch your breath, alright? And never fear, I managed to get us out of any and all obligations to dine with Eist tonight, on the grounds that you’re still far too weak and ill to be leaving your bed. However, I couldn’t talk him out of coming to visit tomorrow, after his healer sees to you. Apparently, he desperately wishes to speak with you. Some urgent business I told him you weren’t well enough to discuss, but he simply wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

Vision having cleared a bit, Geralt pushed himself away, off Jaskier’s shoulder. He had promised himself he would stop with this weakness, before the bard simply up and left him for not behaving as a Witcher should. But the bard gently cupped a hand around his forehead and pushed him back down.

“Stay there a little while yet. You need the rest, and you’re warm. It’s bastard cold out there today.”

Geralt didn’t feel warm. Even with several furs wrapped about his shoulders, he was still shaking a bit, but he was still groggy and didn’t particularly feel like arguing over it. He let himself rest, wondering what could possibly be so important that Eist wanted to speak to him while he was still unable to even get his damned legs to hold his weight. This was always the way. Barely back on his feet and already fielding new demands. Such was the life of a Witcher. As Vesemir had always said, the Path was kind to none, and forgiving to few. And forgiveness was earned, not deserved.

“How long was I asleep?” Geralt was pleased that his voice seemed less raspy and hoarse than it had the previous times he had woken up.

“A few hours. It’s nearly noon. Eist said he would send his healer to see to your knee after he dined, so perhaps we ought to get our own food so you can be ready whenever he comes.”

Geralt was somewhere between nauseous and hungry, but he shrugged and managed to prop himself back against the pillows when Jaskier slipped out from underneath him. There was a loss with the bard’s departure, and Geralt tried very hard not to feel it too keenly, blaming it on his lingering illness and the manifest weakness he had been experiencing since they had left Errowhal behind.

“From the Jarl’s own hunt, I’ve managed to procure us some venison, as well as some stew and bread! That is, if you’re feeling up to it. If not, I’m more than willing to take care of it on my own and venture back down to the kitchens to get you some broth.”

“Bread’s fine.”

Geralt pushed himself up further on the palms of his hands, and took the fluffy egg-bread that Jaskier passed to him. It was soft and delicate, squishing down between his fingers and glazed with sweet egg yolks. Whatever nausea he might have been experiencing was overcome by the urge to enjoy such a delicacy. Geralt had always had a penchant for sweet breads.

After a few moments of companionable silence during which Geralt tried very much not to watch the bard’s delicate hands pick apart a piece of venison and wonder what those hands would feel like buried deep in his hair, Jaskier spoke up again.

“You seem a bit better today. Any improvement in your knee?”

Geralt flexed it cautiously. The stitches were hot and tight in the swollen flesh, and the hollow ache that surrounded it was of the quality only brought on by still-broken bones. But the swelling was a good sign, he thought. At least his body was dedicating resources to its repair. Perhaps, with a bit of encouragement from a healer, it could be well on its way to being usable again. But not anytime in the immediate future. He shrugged again, nibbling at the bread and trying to quell a bout of resurging nausea.   
  


“Not particularly. The ligaments feel completely torn, and I’m not sure if the bones are healing in the proper way. It needs looking at.”

The bard winced sympathetically and cast an appraising eye over the bandaged appendage, gently rubbing a hand along Geralt’s upper thigh.

“Eist has his own healer, a druid from Skellige. If anyone can fix it, it’ll be someone who has the capability of using chaos. I’m sure there’s something to be done for it.”

Jaskier looked so crestfallen that Geralt wasn’t feeling well yet, and the Witcher found the whole thing terribly bemusing. It wasn’t as though his pain was causing the bard any. Even in possession of his vague recollections of their carriage ride, when Jaskier had said he cared about him, Geralt couldn’t understand why the bard was so broken up about his pain.

“I’ll heal. But I’ll be sore, and it will take time. You shouldn’t stay here. I won’t be much good in the heroics and heartbreak department for the next few weeks.”

Jaskier snorted and gazed up at Geralt through his enormously long, dark eyelashes, looking a bit coy.

“Was that a joke I just heard? Goodness, Geralt, you’ve been holding out on me. You do have a sense of humour, after all.”

“It wasn’t a joke.”

“My dear man, if you truly believe I’m still only by your side because I crave, as you put it, _heroics and heartbreak_ , then I’m afraid that you’re gravely mistaken.”

“I seem to remember it was you who put it that way.” Geralt picked more nervously at his bread, wondering where exactly this conversation was headed. He would have preferred to be fevered when he discussed such things. Fevers always made him more talkative. At least, that was what he had been told.

“Well, whether it was you or I, it’s not the reason I travel with you anymore. No, to be honest, the excitement of such things wore off within the first week of travelling at your side. Well, perhaps not the excitement, but at the very least the novelty of them. Geralt, I’m still travelling with you because I enjoy your company. As I said last night, though you may not remember it, I’ve grown very fond of you. And that fondness and enjoyment won’t simply disappear just because you’re not on your feet and able to swing your swords and defend the innocent from great, slavering beasts with terrible jaws.”

Yes. Geralt definitely missed his fever now. He knew his jaw was working, though he wasn’t really able to put together any coherent words that would issue forth from it. He growled in frustration, and Jaskier’s eyes suddenly sparked sharply, full of hurt.

“I-I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…it wasn’t my intention. To say all that. I simply thought you would perhaps be amenable to hearing it. To hearing that you’re…well, you’re not just a means to an end for me. But I understand…perhaps it made you uncomfortable. I should go. It’s what you asked, after all.”

So quick to change his tune, Geralt thought. So quick to backtrack when he thought he had insulted the Witcher. The whole thing was infuriating, and Geralt was too tired and still feeling the pain of his wounds too keenly to mince words.

“No,” Geralt tried to soften his words somewhat, but his teeth were gritted with the agony in his knee, “It’s not that. I just…hmm.”

Jaskier raised an eyebrow, and made a sort of forwards-motioning gesture with his hand. His whole countenance was of utter confusion, and Geralt had to admit that his mind felt the same way. Having never before found himself in such a situation, he found himself woefully underprepared. Most of his usual reactions would be completely inappropriate, and he hadn’t the faintest idea, nor the energy, to puzzle out how he might be expected to react to being told that the bard cared for him.

“Thank you.” He finally managed to choke the words out, though it felt like they were caught on some strange object that had somehow found itself lodged in his throat. Swallowing and wincing at his own damnable awkwardness, he turned his head away, sure that Jaskier would either burst out laughing or simply storm out of the room.

“You’re welcome.” The bard’s voice was soft, gentler than velvet, the same tone with which he sang lullabies and ancient ballads when a tavern’s patrons were too deep into their cups to want rowdy drinking songs. A warm hand cupped Geralt’s shoulder, and suddenly he found Jaskier slotted in beside him, the bard taking great pains to avoid his sore knee and wrists. The hand worked its way up to his hair and began stroking his scalp gently. Geralt tried not to moan at the sheer pleasure of it. He had a vague recollection of Jaskier washing his hair in bed, when he had still been very, very ill and not very aware, and then again in the bath two days ago, but it was greasy and malleable from sweat again. His whole body felt itchy and grimy with fever sweat.

“Ah, I seem to have found a weakness,” Jaskier crowed gently, scratching a bit harder, “Does that feel good?”

“Mhmm.” Geralt felt weak and watery, mostly from his wounds and blood loss, but also as though all his remaining tension and embarrassment and uncertainty was simply melting away into the bard’s clever hands like butter on a hot summer day.

“Good. You get comfortable and go back to sleep, try to get some of your strength back before Eist comes barging in here with all sorts of demands for you. I won’t go anywhere. Do you need anything?”

Hmm. This was all too much, Geralt thought sleepily. He was confused by it, and tired, and wanting very badly to simply fall asleep with Jaskier’s hand trailing through his hair, like the net on a trawler he had once seen fishing off the Skelligan Isles. He didn’t need anything, no. But he very much hoped the bard wouldn’t stop. Closing his eyes, he settled as comfortably as he could, hoping that perhaps the healer would have some answers. His knee was still throbbing, even though the rest of his battered body was beginning to heal. And he was becoming very impatient with the whole thing. Tired, ill and impatient. Not a good combination, he thought blearily, as he drifted off into a restless, dream-filled sleep.

When he was shaken gently awake again, Geralt had been dreaming. It was a similar dream to the ones he had experienced when he was under the influence of whatever strange hallucinogenic cocktail Corvin had forced him to breathe in in that low, dark room. Falka was there, he thought. Or a girl who looked very much like her, all bright blonde hair and wide, green eyes. Her hair was tucked back in a flyaway braid, and she was running a course that looked very much like the one outside Kaer Morhen, the one Vesemir had forced him to run over and over as a boy. Her clothing was stitched together out of animal hides, and she looked ratty and exhausted, sword tip nearly dragging on the ground. Suddenly, she stopped and looked up, only to be confronted by a figure, beautiful and tall, red hair spilling down her green velvet cloak as she gazed at the little girl imperiously from the back of her palfrey. Shoulders heaving, the child opened her mouth to speak, but it was as though Geralt was seeing and hearing the whole thing through water. Her words were muffled, indistinct even to his sensitive ears. Frustrated, he growled. This was an important moment, he could tell. And he was barred from experiencing it.

“Geralt, it’s just me, relax,” that voice was not murky, not cut out by the dream, and Geralt blinked his eyes open, “Ah, there you are. What were you dreaming of?”

He shrugged. As it was with so many dreams, as soon as he opened his eyes, what he had seen no longer felt so vital, or seemed so important. In fact, the longer he stared up at the red canopy above him and tried to calm his heaving breaths, the less he remembered of the dream at all. By the time his heart was no longer racing, all he had was a vague impression of a girl who had looked like the living, breathing incarnation of Falka. And that, on its own, meant nothing to him.

“Not sure,” he heaved himself up, wiping sweat off his brow, “What time’s it?”

“Mid-afternoon. The healer’s here to see you. I told him to wait outside the door until I woke you up; you were thrashing about like a hooked fish and I can’t have you injuring the poor man before he even has a chance to look you over.”

“Hmm.” Geralt reached up and rubbed his temples, still feeling as though something was very off about the whole dream, even though he could no longer remember it. Frowning, he turned to the window, looking out over a small valley, through which a pale, silty river ran. The whole expanse was a mixture of the reds of fall and the greens of the pines, which never turned. Beautiful. Geralt wished he could go outside, if even just to smell the air. There was a freshness to fall air in the mountains which he associated with Kaer Morhen and found very comforting. Perhaps Jaskier would help him to go sit near the window later on. If his knee would hold.

“Can I let him in now?”

Realizing his focus had all but abandoned the room, Geralt started and brought himself back to the present.

“Yes.”

Jaskier looked sleep-dishevelled and sweaty, which was oddly comforting to Geralt. If the bard had still been resting next to him when the healer had knocked at the door, then he mustn’t have slept for that long. Certainly, he was resting for less time than when they had been at the inn and he hadn’t been able to do much more than sleep, occasionally rousing himself to eat something.

The bard hurried back from the anteroom quickly, a rather harried-looking man with wild white hair and a long bear following him. He was dressed in the simple sackcloth robe of an acolyte of the Goddess, almost all of whom were healers famed the Continent over. Geralt wondered who Eist had had to bribe to buy this man into his service. Monks of the Goddess did not take small fees for their services, and he was surprised the man had been spared to come tend to him, no more than a lowly guest.

“Sir Witcher,” the man bowed low, so low in fact that his beard dragged across the fine carpet, “It is an honour to meet you. I am Samuel, the master healer to Lord Eist.”

Unaccustomed to such pageantry, Geralt fiddled awkwardly with the quilt, feeling relieved that his cheeks were probably still too flushed with sleep for there to be any noticeable colour of embarrassment to them. The healer approached, set some things down in a plush armchair that had been dragged to sit near the bed (Geralt could see the tracks in the well-brushed carpet), and approached him cautiously. It was not a cautiousness borne of fear, but rather of something the Witcher loathed to describe as reverence. He twisted his hands even tighter, hoping the man didn’t keep up this act the whole time he was tending to Geralt’s knee. Jaskier’s kind treatment of him was confusing enough.

“Good afternoon,” Geralt had been too long in the wilds, he thought, and manners were coming awkwardly to him, “Thank you for…taking the time.”

“It’s nothing. Now, if you would be so kind as to allow me to examine…” Samuel gestured vaguely at Geralt’s leg, which was obviously bandaged and propped up on nearly every spare pillow Jaskier had been able to find in the whole room. Though Geralt did have to admit it felt better now that it was resting on something a little softer and more forgiving than the mattress. He nodded, shifting it a little, trying to save the old man’s back from having to bend over, but Samuel waved him off.

“There’s no reason to move it unnecessarily. I can see it causes you pain.” His voice was melodious, and had the lilt of someone whose native tongue was not Common. When he rolled

up his sleeves, Geralt could see that his pale, aged arms were littered with small, even scars. Lines of trial, a common practice in Zerrikania, where self-mutilation was commonplace. Clearly, Samuel had not only served the Jarl during his time as an acolyte.

“Now, if you would be so kind as to tell me what happened.” Samuel had bent over his knee and was in the process of cutting away the bandages with a small, sharp knife. Geralt felt each tug keenly, every brush against his stitches feeling rougher than sandpaper.

“It was a crossbow bolt,” he grunted shortly, trying to keep his sounds of pain to a minimum, particularly since Jaskier was looking on with an anxious look on his countenance, “Shot me while I was on horseback. It’s been stitched for a few days, but I’m worried for the bones. Can’t do my job without full use of my leg.”

“Indeed, master Witcher, indeed. It is very enflamed.”

Now that Geralt was sitting up and had the chance to give his knee a proper once-over, he saw that Samuel was right. It was swollen nearly double, the black thread of the stitches barely visible beneath all the irritated skin. He winced. It looked bad, bruised nearly black and blue, the clear fluid of a healing cut seeping down the side of his leg. Without missing a beat, the healer wiped the fluid and blood away deftly, leaving nothing but the wound exposed. The chill air of the room was enough to send grinding pain through the whole joint, and he did his best to contain another wince. It looked awful.

“What would you advise?” He managed to grind out the words against the pain, teeth clenched so hard that he thought for a moment they might simply break.

The healer didn’t answer right away, instead poking about at the wound, nodding a few times in apology when he hit a tender spot and Geralt’s fists clenched tighter into the blankets. He hummed to himself, murmured a few words under his breath, extracted a magnifying glass from his back through which he examined the stitches. When he finally straightened up, Geralt was nearly ready to throttle him for information. His face was infuriatingly blank.

“The bone appears to have been shattered, but it is healing quite miraculously thanks to your mutations. If I had seen this wound on a different man, I must admit I would have advised amputation from the moment I entered his room. However, the whole joint is working incredibly hard to heal itself. Not only is it sapping energy that could be going into healing the numerous other injuries I see on you, but it has also caused serious swelling, particularly around the stitches.”

“Hmm.” Geralt had guessed all this already, and his patience was wearing very thin.

“What I would suggest, therefore,” Samuel continued, apparently oblivious to Geralt’s tensed, impatient posture, “That we cut those stitches in your leg. While they were well-sewn, the thread is causing more harm than good if it’s pulling against healing, newly grown tissue. The cut may not heal as quickly without the stitches there to guide it, but the inflammation should go down much faster, which will allow your body to stop allocating so much energy to it, and actually increase the healing time of the joint as a whole.”

At this point, Jaskier made a displeased, squawking noise, rather like that of a parrot that Geralt had once encountered in a menagerie of exotic animals belonging to a very beautiful noblewoman. His bright eyes were wide, and his face pale.

“Won’t he simply…bleed out? He’s lost enough blood already; you didn’t see him right after he’d been shot, all over blood! It was dripping into the soil. I’m fairly sure we fertilized every tree from Errowhal to the lake.”

Geralt made a slight gesture with his hand, hoping to calm the bard without expending his already flagging energy, but Samuel smiled a little, seemingly having taken no offence.

“Not with his healing abilities, no. Now that he’s regained some strength, I’m sure the wound won’t allow itself to simply continue on bleeding.”

The bard still looked worried, but he nodded his head, subdued. Not for the first time, Geralt noticed the dark bags under his eyes. He looked utterly destroyed, completely exhausted. It was a wonder he was still on his feet at all. Part of Geralt wanted to point it out, tell him to go lie down, or go for a walk, anything to quiet his mind. The Witcher could practically hear the cogs of his brain turning. But he thought better of it. From his previous experience, telling Jaskier they looked tired was liable to earn him an afternoon of hurt looks and the bard constantly checking his complexion in the mirror. Perhaps, when he was feeling a bit less pained, Geralt would be able to come up with a more subtle way of suggesting that the bard get some rest.

“Can we go on? I don’t much like sitting here, feeling useless. I have places I need to be, and I’m sure your lord has some need for me also. I can’t think of any other reason why he might have invited me here.”

Jaskier shot a more frantic look in Geralt’s direction then, drawing a line across his throat, desperately trying to get him to shut his mouth before he accidentally said something improper. Geralt decided he was too tired and in too much hot, throbbing pain to care about it overmuch. Samuel snorted, and for a moment something strange, almost eager, flashed in his eyes.

“Indeed, Lord Eist has his reasons for inviting you here, though they are all things, I believe, that can be attended to while you are still recovering. However, I agree that it would be beneficial to get this swelling under control as soon as possible. I will go fetch some opium, something to put you to sleep, and we can get started, yes?”

“Hmm. No opium. I can go without. If it’d make you feel better, give me valerian root. It puts me less out of my mind.”

“Something of an expert, are we?” Samuel chuckled softly to himself, “Very well. I’ll trust your judgement. Give me a moment, and I’ll be along directly.”

Geralt bowed his head in thanks, still feeling a bit uncomfortable under the old healer’s piercing, almost reverent gaze. He hated feeling so scrutinized. And the feeling of being admired was also new and unwelcome in his repertoire of experiences. As Samuel shuffled slowly out, never turning his back, Geralt fiddled uncomfortably with a bit of bandage that was coming loose around his wrist. The bandages were stained a bit; blood and fluid having leaked through since they had last been changed. Still, he hoped Samuel wouldn’t take it upon himself to change those bandages. Jaskier had done well so far, and he would prefer to be touched as little as possible, particularly while he was out cold after the valerian tea. Perhaps the bard would change them while he was still groggy and waking up. When the pain was still a distant shadow. It occurred to him to ask, but that seemed a craven, cowardly thing to do when there was a qualified healer available to do the rotten work.

As soon as Samuel left the room, thought, Jaskier was back at Geralt’s side, his slight weight dipping the luxurious feather mattress a bit. A hand found the Witcher’s slumped shoulder, and worried blue eyes met his own tired ones.

“Geralt, I’m not sure about this,” the words left the bard’s mouth in a great rush, as though they had been pushing at his lips to get out, “The stitches are the only thing holding your leg together. If you so much as move wrong, you’ll be back to bleeding out again! And…I-I can’t watch that again. I can’t sit here and wait for you to stop bleeding and not be able to do a damned thing to stop it.”

That was sweet. And kind. Too gentle and soft for someone like him. Feeling very tired, blinking against soreness and impending sleep, Geralt lifted a heavy hand and placed it on Jaskier’s shoulder. The bard seemed surprised by this, staring at the hand as though it didn’t belong to anyone he knew. Geralt quickly retracted it, let it get tangled in Jaskier’s own tangled fingers instead. He was too tired to pull it away any further.

“’S fine. He knows what he’s doing. And I understand why he’s doing it. Just…try to relax. Take a walk. It can’t be good, being alone in here all day.”

“I’m not alone, you know.”

“I make for poor company.” Geralt gestured at himself with a shaky palm, feeling repulse by his own form. Not that he felt particularly good about it on a normal day. But now he was marked by far too many obvious showings of his own failures.

Jaskier placed a hand on Geralt’s shoulder, squeezing it gently.

“If you made for poor company, I would have left a long time ago. Though you can be insufferable ornery. And prone to bits of infuriating silence. But it’s all a part of your…rugged charm.”

“Hmm.” Geralt quirked an eyebrow, feeling like laughing but not entirely sure why. He leaned into Jaskier a bit, feeling very tired. This was the longest time he had been fully awake and able to hold a conversation since their escape, and his head was pounding, tension building up in his temples so quickly he felt like he might burst. He cradled his sore brow, trying not to be obvious about it, but Jaskier caught on and ran a gentle hand through his hair while pushing him back down against the pillows.

“Get some rest. Your body will thank you, what with that man coming back here to pick you apart like a roast turkey.”

Geralt sighed, considered rolling over and dismissed it as too much effort. He was exhausted, and his body was a strange combination between numb and infuriatingly oversensitive. He couldn’t get comfortable, but eventually he managed to tune all the gentle noises of the estate into the background and drift off for a while. 


	9. A Revelation Is Given

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt wakes up after having the stitches on his knee cut and begins to recover and feel a bit more himself again. As his recovery continues, someone comes to him with a highly demanding request.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my gosh! You have my deepest apologies for how incredibly long it's taken me to get this up. Let's just say that the stars did not align for me having this chapter done by last Tuesday. I'm in the midst of yet another move, and I also really struggled getting this one out on paper. I'm still not really happy with it, but I couldn't really figure out any way to make it better, so here it is! Chapters that are basically fillers between one important storyline and introducing another are always tricky. But we're definitely getting to the meat of the plot now! So thank you so much for sticking with me. As always, I adore and appreciate all your comments and kudos so very much.

The next several days followed in a similar pattern to the one Jaskier had developed while they were still at the inn. Whatever menial healing progress Geralt had made in the time since they had first escaped Corvin was nearly all lost after Samuel undid the stitches on his knee. He woke from his drugged sleep groggy and disoriented, barely able to understand where he was and speaking utter nonsense. Later that night, he spiked a worrying fever, which the old healer treated with herbs and teas, leaving Jaskier alone with the Witcher overnight to wash the sweat away from his brow and to try his best to hold the much larger man still when he kicked out and squirmed with discomfort. His knee bled profusely, and the bard spent most of that first night and much of the next day changing bandages that he felt he had only just put on.

Samuel returned occasionally, and Jaskier attributed most of Geralt’s quick recovery the second time around to the healer’s teas and medicines; poultices to draw the infected blood and tissue from his leg, rich broth to help his strength return and hydrate his fevered body. But the older man never stayed for long, scuttling about the room with quick, birdlike precision, and then hurrying back from whence he came with not so much as a sound. And in the whole time they had been at the lodge, the only other people they had encountered were Samuel and a young maidservant who brought up their meals. Eist was nowhere to be found, and Jaskier was beginning to wonder why he had yet to visit them.

It was on the fourth day after Samuel removed Geralt’s stitches that the Witcher truly managed to surpass any healing he had done while the knee was still swollen and sewn shut. Jaskier was dozing in a chair near the fire, trying to catch a few hours of rest amidst constant nightmares that brewed together his father and Corvin, when Geralt stirred, a faint sigh escaping his cracked lips. He reached up, rubbed a hand over his brow, and the bard was out of his chair so quickly that he had to grip the back of it as his vision flooded blue. Dizzied, he swayed back and forth for a moment, listening as Geralt rustled about, his breathing no longer as even as it had been in sleep.

When Jaskier finally recovered his ability to see and navigate across the room to the bed, he saw that Geralt had propped himself up on his hands and was looking about with tired, heavy eyes. While the Witcher had been conscious for two days, it had been a broken sort of awareness, flooded by exhaustion and disorientation from the herbs Samuel had been giving him. This was the first time he had seemed fully in possession of himself, not to mention that he was sitting up without his arms simply trembling and giving way beneath him.

“Geralt,” Jaskier sat gently on the bed next to him and tried to resist the urge to take the Witcher’s hand in his own, a habit acquired over the past week, “It’s good to see you.”

Geralt shook his head, as though he was trying to clear his vision, and then his pupils expanded rapidly to take in the candlelit, crepuscular glow. A corner of his mouth quirked upwards ever so slightly.

“Hmm.”

“I will take that as ‘Oh, Jaskier, it’s good to see you too’, and not ask any more of you. How are you feeling?”

“Better. Knee’s a good deal less sore, and it feels much less tight as well. How…how many days has it been? Since Samuel cut the stitches?”

“Ah…about that. You developed a rather impressive fever, and…”

“How many days?” The forceful quality of Geralt’s voice, if nothing else, implied that he was feeling better than he had in well over a week.

“Four. But you seem so much better now.”

“Indeed.”

Geralt leaned back against the cushions then, a pensive look on his face, hands fiddling idly on top of the blankets. The bandages on his wrists and neck had been removed yesterday, leaving naught but raw, red and puckered skin. The burns would scar, Samuel had said, but with the application of proper salves it would be possible to see that the skin was returned to its former level of elasticity. Jaskier hoped that the scars wouldn’t serve as too painful a reminder of what they had endured. He felt reminded every day, and bore no physical marks to memorialize their encounter.

They stayed like that for a while, Geralt leaned back against the cushions and Jaskier at his side. He didn’t seem overly tired, certainly not as exhausted as he had been during his brief moments of wakefulness over the last several days. At some point, he moved over, and jerked his head to the side.

“Bed’s massive. No reason why you should be perched on the edge of it like that.” Jaskier had to hide a small smile at Geralt’s too gruff tone, and snuggled up on the pillows. Part of him had been afraid that once the Witcher regained more of his faculties, the sudden and strange fondness he had been expressing for the bard over the last several days would simply melt away. Geralt was not a man who was fond of physical affection, or even others sharing his space. At least, that had been Jaskier’s initial perception. But here he was, more lucid than he had been since their escape from Errowhal, inviting the bard to share his bed. Perhaps it had not simply been injury-induced delirium causing him to seek out some small comforts. Warmth bloomed in Jaskier’s chest at the thought.

“Is your knee bothering you? Shall I get you something to eat? You must be starved; we’ve not been able to get anything substantial into you for days.”

“Hmm. Bread. And…water.”

Jaskier gave a poorly concealed little laugh, feeling suddenly very fond of the man before him.

“Ah, Geralt. Only you would find yourself convalescing in one of the finest manors in this part of the Continent and ask to be served bread and water. Come now, what takes your fancy? Oysters, perhaps? Stewed in a mushroom sauce and served with white wine? Or some of the meat newly caught and dried and smoked with applewood in the cellars?”

Geralt turned a few shades paler as Jaskier spoke, and he quickly swallowed back any further odes to gourmet food that were conjuring themselves up within his mind.

“Perhaps I was too quick to try to please,” he backed down with a small smile, “You probably need some time to get accustomed to eating such delicacies again, especially after so many days of illness.”  
  


Geralt drew a quick breath, and looked relieved that he did not have to explain himself any further. He stretched up an arm and leaned his head back against it, and Jaskier averted his eyes briefly, suddenly very conscious of how close they were, in a bed, and Geralt completely unclothed but for the sheets. Not for the first time, he found himself feeling extremely relieved that Witchers’ capacity for Chaos did not extend itself to mindreading. At least, not that Jaskier knew of. He shook his head, quickly trying to clear it of all its mischievous thoughts, just in case.

“Shall I go fetch that for you now? Or would you rather I stayed? You are still looking a bit under the weather. Perhaps it’s best I sent for someone to bring it up. I would never forgive myself if you perished simply because I had stepped out to find us some dinner.”

“I’m not about to die, bard. Just tired. Bring me my swords and go get yourself something to eat.”

“Your swords?” Jaskier laughed, incredulous, “What, exactly, are you planning on doing with those? I doubt you could even manage to lift them at the moment.”  
  


“They need cleaning, and proper oiling. They’ll rust, sitting about like that, and I’ve been idle for long enough.”

“My dear,” Jaskier gulped as the endearment escaped from his mouth before he could stop it, but Geralt didn’t seem to notice, “You’ve hardly been idle. You’ve been working just to keep yourself alive. Swords be damned, Geralt, you need to be resting, recovering your strength a bit more yet. Nothing here is going to try to stab you in the gut whilst you sleep.”

The Witcher raised a cynical eyebrow and held out a slightly trembly hand.

“My swords. If I find myself unable to continue, I’ll rest.”

“In the same way you rest when you think I’m not paying attention? After I’ve bothered you for days and days to slow down and take proper care of yourself? Because forgive me if I don’t find myself completely able to trust your judgement after witnessing those little displays.”

Geralt’s hand didn’t budge, though he was beginning to shake more and more. Eventually, the bard took mercy and sighed, handing him his silver sword, which had been leaned up against a chair.

“Clean this. The other one can wait, yes?”

“I suppose.” The words were begrudging, but Jaskier took them as a win. Several weeks ago, he never even would have attempted to deny Geralt anything, fearing for the longevity of his internal organs. He left the Witcher with a few rags, as well as some oil for his blade, and went off in search of something to eat.

All the corridors of Eist’s lodge were richly furnished, though that came as no surprise. If the Skelligan penchant for beautiful, expensive ornamentation had not been known to Jaskier, then the exterior decoration of the building would have served as enough of a preparation for what was housed within it. Stag and ram heads, stuffed with clinical precision, hung every few yards along the expansive hallways. Each one had a small placard beneath it, denoting the name of the hunter who had downed it, as well as the year. Nearly all the kills belonged to Eist; a few here and there showing names so similar to his own that they could only belong to siblings. Jaskier wondered how long this lodge had been in the Jarl’s family.

So distracted was he with admiring the heads, and the plush red carpeting of the floors, and the paintings by some of the finest and most renowned artists on the Continent that Jaskier nearly smacked headlong into Samuel. The old healer was travelling back towards their rooms, his nose buried in a book, muttering to himself. The bard had to swerve at the last second, nearly crashing into a finely displayed vase on a pedestal. Samuel looked up, startled, his strangely delicate lips parted as a gentle breath huffed through them. For a moment, though he couldn’t identify why, Jaskier felt deeply unsettled. It was as though he was being watched. Though it could have simply been the baleful eyes of so many long-dead creatures hung from the walls causing his discomfort.

* * *

The moment Jaskier excused himself from the room, Geralt let the sword drop from his deadened hands. It was humiliating, truly, that the weapon seemed to somehow have gained several pounds since the last time Geralt had lifted it. His own weakness, even after over a week since their original escape, was startling and causing him a good deal of frustration.

Once the sword was lying atop the quilt, so out of place amidst the obtrusive finery of Eist’s décor, Geralt leaned back against the pillows. He was shaky all over, and felt hazy, probably from some sort of drug they had been giving him during his sleep to combat the fever and pain.

The all-encompassing exhaustion was gone, replaced with a lighter weight on his eyelids, nothing that he couldn’t fight now that he was determined to stay awake. It wouldn’t do to have Jaskier return to their rooms only to discover him sleeping again. The bard had worried enough, however inexplicably, for his wellbeing over the last weeks.

However, Geralt knew he would never keep his wits about him without something to occupy his mind. Casting his eyes about, they alit on a small volume placed face-down, opened to mark a place, on the bedside table. Perhaps Jaskier had been reading it while he had been fevered and ill. Curious about what sorts of books the bard enjoyed (Geralt had never seen him read anything besides his own works while they were travelling; hiking along next to Roach did not allow for the extra weight of books), the Witcher leaned over with a poorly disguised wince and picked up the tome. It was old; the pages crackled a bit and were well worn down by many different sets of hands. The whole thing exuded a faint earthy smell, the kind Geralt associated with the library at Kaer Morhen. It was a very homey scent, and he breathed it in, wincing again when the deep breath caught in his chest and made him cough ever so slightly. His knee jarred at the motion, and he took a second to breathe deeply and compose himself before turning the book over with tired hands, propping it against the blankets in his lap and focusing on the spidery script with some effort.

The words were scrawled across the page, disorganized and unclean, so unlike the neat and formulaic columns of the bestiaries that had accompanied Geralt’s childhood. At first, he barely even knew where to begin reading. But, starting at the top, a sort of verse began to take shape. The words fit awkwardly in Geralt’s mind; there seemed to be a pattern to them, but it escaped him. Even the way it was written, floral and bright and yet strangely melancholy, was so different from anything he had seen before.

_She flickers, a bit_

_Like an untended flame_

_Dappling the light_

_Surrounding me_

_Sometimes_

_I feel her hand_

_Soft, warm, paper-thin_

_Here she is everywhere_

_But gone, absent_

_As though she had simply_

_Stepped away_

_Her breath, her pulse_

_They are this land_

_Keeping time with my steps_

_She has breathed into my heart_

_And filled me_

_With a carefully tended spark_

Geralt snapped the book shut rather abruptly, and found that his hands were trembling, though he did not know why. His breaths were coming more rapidly now as well, and no matter how many times he traced a figure eight on the bedspread in an effort to calm them, they stuttered on, catching in his aching lungs. Something about the verse, so incoherent and yet so vivid, stuck in his mind. He had no idea who had written it, and who the subject was, but as he considered the words memories of the boys he had trained with at Kaer Morhen flashed through his mind. Orion, who had wanted to be buried with living flowers, as had been his family’s custom. Einar, whom Eskel had told him later had held on longer than all the others, begun to recover before one morning the other boys had gone to check on him only to find him stone-cold and stiff in his bed, more marble statue than flesh and blood. Suddenly feeling very cold, Geralt drew up the blankets around his shoulders. He was shivering and didn’t know why. Images of his first Trials amalgamated with the tortures Corvin had put him through until they were all blurred together, and he ached all over from the tremors even as the fire crackled merrily in the hearth. Oddly enough, his fragmented, distracted mind kept coming back to Jaskier. He wished the bard were here. An odd thought; Jaskier knew nothing of the Trials. Nothing of what he had been put through at the hands of the mages of Kaer Morhen.

Later, Geralt had no idea how long he stayed like that. A trembling, shivering mess, blankets pulled up about his shoulders and sweat pouring off his forehead and turning his white shirt sheer, sticking it to his skin. At one point, he thought he heard a sound, a faint bumping of wood outside the door and hoped that Jaskier had returned, but the door never opened and he eventually fell into a fitful half-sleep. His knee was still sore to the very bones, and his mind was too restless and caught in memory to truly let himself fall asleep. It seemed to be many hours later before the door finally opened and Jaskier slipped in. Geralt stirred, trying to pull himself upright and pushing his unruly, sweat-soaked hair off his brow with a clumsy hand. He was aware of how he must look, dishevelled and pale and shivering, sweat soaking through his shirt and dripping from his brow. The moment Jaskier caught sight of him, propped up on one arm in bed, the bard set the tray he was carrying down gently and hurried to Geralt’s side without so much as a word. He wiped a bit of the sweat away from his brow, humming concernedly under his breath.

“You seemed so much better when I left,” he settled a bit closer to Geralt, who considered moving away before realizing tiredly that Jaskier was warm and he didn’t particularly want to, “What can I do to help you?”

If the bard’s eyes had fallen on the abandoned book, he chose not to mention it. Instead, when Geralt tiredly turned his head into the pillow, Jaskier lay down cautiously next to him. His heart rate picked up a bit, but Geralt was too tired to ponder it at the moment. His mind and body felt wrung out and exhausted, and he wanted nothing more than to lie down and rest for a while. If only to purge the images of the other boys of Kaer Morhen from his mind, as the melded with those of the child Falka he had seen while in Corvin’s dungeons, as well as Yennefer and Eskel and all those he cared about. His child surprise, or what he imagined his child surprise might be like, had even filtered into his dreams as well. There was an aura of longing and loss that hung about the whole room; a dull grey mist like rain that dampened everything it touched. Wanting nothing more than to escape it, Geralt turned his head and breathed in Jaskier’s musician’s scent, his calloused hands and rosin-coated fingertips, and fell asleep to the rhythm of the other man’s breathing.

* * *

They lay side by side for quite some time, an hour or maybe longer. Jaskier knew the food he had brought would have long ago gone cold, but he didn’t particularly care. His return had been heartrending; seeing Geralt pale and shaky and looking altogether more unwell than he had when the bard had left. Whatever was causing him distress, though, didn’t seem to be physical. His knee looking sore and swollen and unpleasant, but not any worse. Jaskier wondered if perhaps Geralt was not so untouched by Corvin’s torture as he had made himself out to be.

The bard lost track of time for a while, drifting in the strange dream space that occupied his subconscious. He tried composing, but the words seemed to be just out of his grip, slipping away like a newly caught fish whenever he reached out and tried to grasp them. This was the case more often than not these days. Corvin had invaded even the most private parts of Jaskier’s mind, and he hated the elf for it.

What finally brought him back to reality was Geralt stirring under his arm, which woke him with a sudden and aggressive start. He had forgotten how close he had gotten to the Witcher, and made to back away before Geralt gripped his arm tightly, with more strength than he had had to spare in weeks.

“’S good.” His words were heavy and gritty with sleep, and Jaskier found the whole thing sinfully attractive. Geralt’s hair had dried of sweat, and was now plastered messily about his face and the pillows, and he was blinking tiredly, scrubbing a shaky hand over his eyes and chin. Jaskier tried to avoid looking at the new, pink scar that interrupted the smooth texture of his skin, making a permanent ring about his wrist. He hoped, with time, that the marks would fade.

“How are you feeling? Any better than earlier? You seemed to be in a right state when I got back.”

“Tired,” Geralt swallowed uncomfortably and something that looked close to embarrassment tinged his pale cheeks, “I – my apologies. For earlier. I didn’t mean to cause you distress.”

“No harm done,” Jaskier tried to keep his words light, mostly to counter the weight he felt on his chest as Geralt’s hand slowly inched its way over and rested just above his heart, “I’m just glad you’re alright. You know I’m here. Should you need…anything.”

“Hmm. Have you eaten?”

Jaskier shook his head; he had hoped that Geralt wouldn’t remember about the food from earlier. He was very comfortable and warm, and doubted that he would ever have an opportunity to be so near to the Witcher once he was well again. Against all his better judgement, he was discovering that this closeness was something he was beginning to cherish.

“I brought back something for you as well. If you’re feeling up to eating it. Samuel also recommended that you try going for a walk once you were awake again. Something about not letting the muscles sit for too long, so as they don’t weaken and impede the healing. We should try today, if you can.”

Jaskier tried to ignore the way Geralt’s hand immediately left his chest and went to his sore knee. There was a coldness in the place it had vacated. Instead, he watched as the Witcher felt about the limb, wincing and gritting his teeth as he ran feather-light fingers over the bandages. His face turned a couple shades paler even as he took a bracing breath.

“Healer’s right,” he grunted, looking for all the world like he wished he wasn’t, “But you should eat first.”

“And what about you?”

Geralt was looking more than a little nauseous by this point, but he gave a tired shrug and went back to rubbing his knee and moving his leg cautiously. His ankle was also bandaged, though the swelling had gone down considerably; Samuel had stated it would be better for him to try walking on it to try to regain some strength, and that his Witcher healing would do the rest. Sighing, Jaskier fetched the cold food from where it had hastily been set down by the door, and returned to Geralt’s side. There was no objection from the Witcher when he settled down next to him again and proceeded to take a few bites of cold meat and vegetables. Geralt picked at a slice of bread tiredly, managing a few mouthfuls before he set it back down.

“Still feeling ill?”

“No. Just…off. Jaskier, where’s my medallion?”

The bard was surprised and a bit concerned that it had taken Geralt so long to notice it was missing. He must be far more tired than he was letting on.

“I took it off when you were fevered back in the inn. Then, when you became ill here, you kept twisting about and Samuel said he was worried it might choke you. It’s over in your pack, give me a moment and I’ll get it for you.”

Shovelling the last few morsels of food into his mouth with a loud slurping noise that made Geralt raise an eyebrow, Jaskier rolled out of the bed and quickly retrieved the medallion, placing it in Geralt’s outstretched hand. His fingers closed atop it and he heaved a sigh of relief, clasping it about his neck again.

“Better?”

“Hmm.”

“Ever the eloquence with you. If you’re finished with that bread, what say we go for a small walk? There’s a balcony through those doors with the most beautiful view of the mountains. I’ve spent a good amount of time reading out there while you’ve been sleeping away the fever over the last few days.”

Looking very much as though he was about to be led to the hangman’s noose, Geralt nodded and braced his hands against the bed, pushing himself fully upright. He swayed there for a moment, blinking dizzily, and Jaskier reached out and took his shoulders, bracing him a bit.

“You’re alright? You don’t have to if you’re not feeling well enough quite yet. We’ve nowhere to be and while Eist hasn’t deigned to make an appearance yet, I’ve been assured by several members of his staff that our staying here is no inconvenience to him.”

“I’ve been in bed long enough,” Geralt gritted out, “Just…help me up.”

“Well, I certainly wasn’t planning on abandoning you like this.”

Very carefully, Geralt managed to get his injured knee to the edge of the bed, by which point he was very pale, and all his muscles were tensed as he tried to control his shaking. They took a moment there, Jaskier allowing Geralt to catch his breath under the pretense of needing to catch his own. Then, he offered his arm to the Witcher, who took it and pulled himself up far more quickly and forcefully than the bard had expected, nearly causing both of them to overbalance and fall back to the bed before Jaskier steadied himself.

“Goddess, don’t overdo it. You’ve not walked in at least a week and a half, no need to do it all in one go.”

When he looked over at Geralt, though, the Witcher was blinking furiously, probably to clear his vision. One hand was rested on his good leg, and he looked positively miserable as he straightened to standing. Jaskier bore the brunt of his weight with no complaint, slipping more firmly under his shoulder and hoping he didn’t somehow manage to reinjure the newly healed scar tissue on Geralt’s neck. They took several shaky, stumbling steps over to the glass-panelled doors, which Jaskier had had the presence of mind to throw open earlier on. Limping out onto the balcony, the bard helped Geralt down into an armchair he had dragged out for his own use several days ago. Geralt immediately braced his hands on his thighs and took several shaky breaths, gooseflesh popping up on his skin, which was left exposed by the thin white shirt he must have slipped into at some point.

“Should I get you a blanket? It’s quite chilly out here today, must be the wind coming down from the mountains.”

Knowing Geralt would never accept his offer unless he was purposeful about it, Jaskier fetched a wool blanket he had been using from inside the door and wrapped it about the Witcher’s legs, propping his bad leg up on a small ottoman he had also dragged out from inside their rooms. Geralt’s shivering stopped soon after, though the heavy breathing through his nose continued for another few minutes before he regained the capability of speech.

“Better?”

The look the Witcher gave him was venomous, but there was no true ill intent behind it. At least, Jaskier thought, they had moved past the stage where Geralt would simply knock the wind out of him every time he got irritating. Though at the moment, the bard doubted he would have been capable of summoning the physical strength required for such an action.

“Shall I bring you a book? Or…ah.”

Geralt’s eyes were already drifting closed, and Jaskier felt a moment of such fondness and warmth that it took everything in his power not to go over and gently brush back the Witcher’s messy hair from his forehead. He looked so tired, and his hollow cheeks and pallid complexion made every inch of Jaskier feel the need to comfort him, to gather him up in his arms and stave off the world until all the cruelty towards his kind was gone. He knew Geralt would not desire or appreciate such a gesture, though, and settled for pulling up the blanket a little before settling back against the railing of the balcony with his book of poetry. He didn’t notice the creasing in the pages where the book had been dropped, or the minute thumbprints where it had been gripped between tightly clenched fists.

* * *

Over the next several days, Geralt continued to improve at a far greater speed than he had been before the stitches on his leg had been removed. By the third day, he was walking, albeit with a heavy limp, and by the fifth he had managed to talk Samuel into letting him practice simple drills with his swords in the courtyard of the lodge. The burns on his wrists and neck had faded to nothing more than reddened patches of highly textured skin. Geralt still kept them wrapped tightly, and slathered copious amounts of ointment on them when he thought the bard wasn’t looking, but Jaskier had chosen not to comment on it. He was simply relieved the Witcher was beginning to feel and act a bit more like himself again.

On the sixth day, Jaskier was resting in the grass, scribbling diligently in his notebook as Geralt worked through some simple forms with his sword. The bard looked up briefly and winced as Geralt struggled to hold his balance, face contorted with pain as his still-swollen knee refused to take any of his weight.

“Geralt, are you sure that’s wise?” Jaskier called out to him; the wind was howling fiercely that day and he wondered if the Witcher would even hear him, “You’ve only just regained the ability to walk, don’t go and throw it all away now.”

If there was one thing that had not changed since Geralt’s relative return to health, it was the strange new dynamic that he and Jaskier had struck up after escaping from Corvin’s keep. Statements that would have earned the bard a fist in the gut mere weeks ago were now accepted without comment. Sometimes, Geralt even listened to Jaskier’s advice. He was also a bit freer with his smiles now, occasionally allowing his lips to quirk upwards or a small bark of laughter to escape his mouth if the bard said something he found amusing. He also let Jaskier share his bed. Though perhaps it was simply because it was the only one they had been provided with, and Geralt would not see the bard sleep on the floor. Thought that, in and of itself, was world of difference compared to the coldness with which the Witcher had treated him after their meeting in Posada. For the first time in many years, Jaskier felt wanted. Needed, even. A small smile tugged at his own lips as he remembered the previous night, when he had woken to find Geralt’s tired head nestled against his shoulder, breaths deep and even and peaceful. It had been wonderful and calm.

“It’s fine,” Geralt gritted the words out, spitting an errant lock of hair that blew into his mouth, “Just a bit…sore.”

On the last word, he stumbled forwards a bit, needing to drop his sword to brace himself against a topiary artfully carved into a rearing horse. Jaskier was on his feet before Geralt could brush him away, slipping himself under the Witcher’s arm and leading him to sit on the grass.

“You’re still wounded, you know. You can’t be as ill as you were and simply stand up one day and expect to go traipsing about the same as before. Come, have a rest and some water. You look hot.”

Catching the water skin that the bard tossed to him, reflexes a bit dulled but still impressive, Geralt leaned back on an elbow and took a long drink. He was flushed from the wild mountain breeze and the effort he was expending, chest rising and falling a hair faster than normal. When he returned the water, Jaskier offered him a small smile.

“Better?”

“Hmm,” Geralt was staring over the bard’s shoulder, “Someone’s coming.”

Immediately, Jaskier’s heart went from a normal speed to a near-panicked tempo, and he whipped about so fast he nearly fell into the topiary, reaching for the knife in his boot as he did so. A tall figure was striding across the lawn, broad-shouldered and well-built and decidedly _not_ Corvin. Heaving a sigh of relief, Jaskier slumped back, trying his best to ignore Geralt’s suspicious gaze.

“It’s Eist,” Jaskier recognized the man from Pavetta’s betrothal feast months ago, “About time, as well. Some host he’d be if he didn’t come to welcome us the whole time we were staying here.”

The Jarl opened his broad arms as soon as he was within shouting distance, and boomed out a welcome that was both sonorous and enthusiastic. Geralt raised an eyebrow, heaving himself to his feet, and dipped his head the merest trifle as Eist approached. He was waved off, though.

“Go on, take some rest,” the Jarl gestured at the ground, “You’ve been injured, and you’ve barely recovered, or so my healer tells me. And with recovery being the prime reason for your invitation here, you may as well at least humour me.”

Halfway through easing himself back onto the grass with his leg awkwardly stretched straight out in front of him, Geralt’s head bobbed up.

“What?”

Jaskier could have slapped him. Only Geralt seemed to be invariably capable of immediately forgetting all the limited manners he possessed when he was in front of someone who might actually be offended by his lack of them. But Eist only chuckled, settling himself on the grass with a groan of pleasure. The bard heard several of his joints popping and cracking, another representation of a life lived by the sword.

“All in good time, Geralt, all in good time. Our manners seem to have eluded us, yes? Because while I know a great deal about the two of you and your recent…encounter, I have yet to introduce myself. Lord Eist Tuirseach, Jarl of the Skelligan Isles and husband of her Royal Highness Queen Calanthe of Cintra. Though I believe we did make a passing and dramatic acquaintance a few months ago, at a certain feast…”

“Yes,” Geralt nodded, still massaging his knee gingerly, “Not an easy night to forget.”

“Indeed, my dear Witcher! Though it should provide you with ample evidence as to why I’ve had the two of you brought here.”

Believing he had caught wind of at least the basics of what Eist was on about, Jaskier nodded and leaned back, expecting Geralt to do the same. But the Witcher cocked his head, brows furrowed.

“Forgive me my…lapse,” the more courteous language sounded heavy and awkward on his tongue, “But your reasons haven’t quite managed to make themselves clear to me. Perhaps you could…enlighten me?”

Eist chuckled.

“No need for the courtly manners amongst friends. I can see how they pain you, as they do for me. As for your invitation here, the reason is simple. If you are to be the caretaker of my grandchild, I must make sure you are alive and well to care for him. Or her, as the case may be. And you certainly won’t be capable of doing that whilst you’re languishing in some little-known lord’s dungeons.”

Geralt nodded at this, though he still seemed very surprised. Though Jaskier, who had guessed as much when it came to Eist’s reasons for inviting them here, was also struggling to contain his surprise. It was not normal for a Lord (or anyone, for that matter) to protect the guardian of a child surprise who was to be given up from their family. It showed, perhaps, just how deeply the Skelligans both respected and feared destiny and her laws. That Eist would invite Geralt here to recover instead of simply letting him rot and never having to worry again about giving up his grandchild was a display of submission to destiny’s whims. A display that Jaskier was surprised the Jarl was so open about. Though, he knew the culture and traditions of Skellige were very different than the ones he was used to.

“You have my thanks.” Geralt sounded dubious, suspicious even. Jaskier nudged him gently in the ribs. Displaying such openness would only get them both in trouble.

“Indeed. Now, to the matter at hand. I was hesitant to trouble the two of you earlier, especially after the rather bleak report given to me by my healer on your condition when you arrived here. I trust a few days’ rest have given you the time you needed to heal?”

Jaskier wanted to jump in to let Eist know there was no chance of Geralt being anywhere near his levels of strength before they had been captured, not for weeks yet. But the Witcher suddenly placed a warm hand on his arm, silencing him even as his mouth opened.

“It’s been sufficient.” Jaskier tried not to slap his friend. Geralt was still rubbing at his knee, and his face was tight with lines of pain. Even his posture, bad leg splayed out on the grass because he couldn’t bend it, leaned back tiredly, betrayed his weakness. And it wasn’t a stretch to imagine the bandages still tightly wound around both his knee and ankle, supporting the joints that would not support themselves.

“Ah, excellent, excellent. Because there is a matter, with which I know you are already unfortunately well acquainted, that requires both our attention. The problem of Lord Corvin, the false Lord of Errowhal.”

The bard immediately noticed the way Geralt’s face twisted as soon as Corvin’s name was mentioned. His hand, already holding his knee, tightened its grip until his knuckles were nearly white. He looked tense, miserable. Jaskier wished they could simply disappear, or better yet that none of this had ever happened. Geralt had enough burdens without the continuous taking on of more.

“I believe that it is in the best interests of all the surrounding landowners if this lord is…eradicated…as soon as possible,” Eist continued on, seemingly completely unaware of how Geralt’s disposition had changed from relatively relaxed to completely tense in a matter of seconds, “For the safety of the tenants as well as our own property value. Therefore, I am willing to contribute a small force, led by you, to help kill this elf and reinstate a proper lord.”

Something turned in Jaskier’s stomach at the words. A strange and overwhelming combination of emotions assaulted him, and he found himself leaned over, as though he was about to be sick. Fear and relief and anger and some distant memories all roiled about in his gut like ships tossed about on a turbulent sea. He felt Geralt’s hand, still gripping on his arm, steadying him, and heard some words leave the Witcher’s mouth.

“Give me a day to prepare.” The unspoken undercurrent of vehemence in Geralt’s words suggested there was no give. He would lead the force to Corvin’s gate, and he would impale the elf with his own blade, injuries or not. Jaskier’s heart sank ever lower even as he heard Eist’s jovial laugh.

“Perhaps I’ll join you! It’s been a while since I’ve had a bit of fun. And that bastard deserves to be put in his place for what he’s done.”

The Jarl pulled himself off the ground, wished them a pleasant afternoon, and bid them join him at dinner. Then he meandered off, leaving Geralt sitting pensively in the grass and Jaskier beside him, trying to control tremors of rage or fear or perhaps something else entirely. His heart was pounding and aching in his chest.

“Geralt, you’ve barely been out of bed a week,” he heard the words escape his lips plaintively before he could put a stop to his own weakness, “You…you don’t need to go. You could stay, and recover, and when you’re well again you could lead Corvin’s men.”

Geralt watched him for a moment, a bemused expression on his face. His hand still hadn’t moved from the bard’s arm, and it was now squeezing a bit tighter.

“I remember you making a vow, when we left,” he said slowly, eyebrows creasing as though the recollection was very fuzzy and confused, “That you would be back to help the people of Errowhal. And I know you tried to gather a force while we stayed at the inn. But…Eist’s men offer a better chance of success than any group of villagers ever will. Not to mention that these are soldiers, not farmers and farriers. They fight knowing they might die. And Eist will only send them to fight Corvin with me at their helm. He knows he’ll only be successful if they’re commanded by someone with knowledge of the keep. Errowhal is impenetrable unless you know where to look.”

“That doesn’t change the fact that you can barely stand on your own.”

“I’ll make do. I have before.”

Jaskier considered this for a moment. His first reaction was to burst out, to feel furious, to tell Geralt that just because he _could_ didn’t mean he should _have to_. But all that sounded too soft, too loving. At this rate he’d frighten the Witcher off before the other man even had the wherewithal to call them friends. So he just tightened his hand in the grass, unintentionally ripping up a few clumps along the way. Geralt raised an eyebrow at the tearing noise, but said nothing.

“Just…be safe, yes? I know this may not be what you want to hear…but I’ve grown very fond of you. I told you on the journey here, but I’m not sure how much of that you remember, so I thought it best to say it again now. Just in case you’re planning on getting yourself killed under the assumption that there’s no one on the Continent that would miss you.”

“I remember.” The words were short, to the point, but there was no malice or frustration in them. None of the reactions Jaskier had expected if Geralt ever regained his recollections of their night spent bouncing along the dirt road in the chilly carriage.

They stayed for a bit longer like that, and then Geralt heaved a sigh, and pulled himself awkwardly back to his feet. He took a few limping, stumbling steps before regaining his balance and picking up his sword.

“Looks like rain,” he commented shortly, “Best get whatever writing you wanted to do outside today finished in the next half hour, then head back in.”

“What about you?”

“The rain won’t hurt me. And I need to regain some more of my strength if I’m to face Corvin as soon as Eist wants.”

Swinging his sword in an experimental and rather showy moulinet, the Witcher settled into a stance that compensated for his wounded knee and ankle, and turned his back on the bard. His white hair and shirt contrasted brightly with the dark storm clouds forming beyond the mountains.


	10. The Veil Pulled Back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt and Jaskier talk. A dangerous plot within the lodge is exposed and dealt with, but the cost may be very dear.
> 
> CW: Brief mentions of noncon, maybe necrophilia if you really squint at it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all! Another slightly shorter chapter today, but I couldn't resist leaving you guys on a bit of a cliffhanger. This story is turning into a real beast, but I think I have about two more chapters left here and then it should be all done. Maybe an epilogue for softness. Then, I've got an idea for a little game based oneshot, and then I'll be moving on to a sequel to Lilacs.
> 
> Enjoy, and thank you once again for taking the time to leave comments and kudos! I will get back to all of you eventually, I promise!

Jaskier was near ready for dinner by the time Geralt burst back into their rooms, a great flurry of dripping water and soaking clothes. By that point, the rain was pounding against the window and hitting the ground so hard it was creating a sort of misty spray. The sky was darkened as though it was the dead of night, and thought Jaskier was rather loathe to admit it, he had been pacing back and forth for some time, his concern for Geralt spending so much time out in the miserable weather outweighing any other thoughts that entered his mind.

“Goddess, Geralt,” the moment he entered, Jaskier fell upon him with a combination of highly nervous energy and a good amount of worry, “It’s bastard miserable out there. Don’t you think there would be better days to spend hours outside training? Especially with the state you’ve been in the past couple of days, you could catch your death out there in the cold!”

Geralt parted back his curtain of dripping hair and stared at the bard tiredly, as though he simply didn’t have the energy to explain his reasoning at the moment. His sword fell heavily from his hand and thumped dully against the floor. Knowing that the Witcher would never have dropped his sword on purpose, Jaskier reached out and caught his arm.

“Are you well enough to go down for dinner tonight? If not, I can always go and make some sort of excuse for you. You look like death warmed over.”

“I’m just wet. Not the first time.”

Geralt shook off Jaskier’s arm and proceeded to limp over to a chair, where he lowered himself down and dried off his hair with a spare shirt that was draped over the back of it. The bard shook himself, feeling a bit confused at the sudden change in the Witcher’s demeanour. He seemed closed off, distant. His face, which had grown more open and changing over the past few days, was like a door slammed shut. Jaskier tried not to let his hurt show too openly. His father had always said that wearing his heart on his sleeve would only get him in trouble, make him more vulnerable than he already was.

“Well…I’ll be over there. Getting ready. If you need anything.”

“Hmm.”

Geralt proceeded to strip off his soaking shirt, which was plastered firmly and very distractingly to his chest, and dry himself off with the makeshift towel he had pulled from the back of the chair. His skin was covered in gooseflesh, and he shivered a little before pulling on a clean black shirt from his bag and doing the same thing with his pants. He pulled his hair into a loose knot at the base of his neck, a few strands falling messily free and curling about his face.

Realizing he had been staring and it was only Geralt’s complete and utter lack of self awareness that had kept the Witcher from noticing, Jaskier shook himself and pulled on a pair of red breeches and a pale blue shirt. Nothing showy, not here in the middle of the wilds, but of fine

enough craftsmanship to show he knew a thing or two about style. Perhaps offset his companion’s lack of caring about his physical appearance as well. Not anticipating any requests to play tonight, Jaskier gave his lute an affectionate pat before leaning it up against the wall by the bed.

“Ready to go?”

He turned to see Geralt slumped in the chair by the fire, eyes closed, though whether it was pain or exhaustion that was causing his expression was indeterminate. Jaskier guessed the former, though, based on how he was gripping at his knee.

“Listen, are you sure you want to go tonight? I really don’t mind if you stay here, try to get some rest maybe?”

Shaking himself as though he had been half asleep already, Geralt blinked blearily up at the bard before rearranging his face into a mask of calculated indifference, one that Jaskier saw him put up far too frequently.

“It’s just sore. Come, we’ll be late.”

“Well, this is the first I’ve ever heard of you urging me to go to a public engagement. Usually it’s violently the other way round.” When in doubt, Jaskier thought, perhaps he could just pretend everything was normal until Geralt finally broke down and told him he wasn’t feeling his best yet.

“Hmm. Best not to insult the man who’s currently giving us lodgings and food. Unless you want to spend tonight sleeping out in the rain.”

Nodding, Jaskier took up his place at Geralt’s side, all the while trying to curb the urge to take the Witcher’s arm. He wasn’t sure if he was too forward in his physical affections, but he was sure Geralt wouldn’t take well to being touched like that. Especially without giving his permission first. So Jaskier settled for walking slowly by his side as they limped down the hallway, Geralt relying mostly on a heavy wood stick that Samuel had given him. It was varnished beautifully, nearly red, with a knotted, twisted handle.

“You know, you look very aristocratic with that,” Jaskier tried, hoping to break the ice a bit, “Like a lord. Perhaps if you hadn’t been a Witcher you would’ve made a good alderman.”

Geralt snorted, and his lips quirked upwards for the merest trifle of a second before his face rearranged itself again.

“Indeed. Might be all I’m good for if I can’t get rid of this damned limp.”

“Give it time,” Jaskier shrugged, relieved that whatever irritation Geralt had been feeling towards him earlier was apparently not permanent, “And rest it. I’m sure you’ll be well soon enough.”

He left unspoken the part about how the limp would probably take weeks to heal. Weeks during which Geralt planned on leading a campaign against an elf lord who was not only cruel and vicious but exceptionally strong with Chaos. If Geralt had been anyone other than who he was, Jaskier wouldn’t have fancied his chances. As it was, he simply tried not to think about what might happen.

They got to the stairs before Geralt finally swallowed his pride and extended his arm, which Jaskier took easily and rested on his own. He tried to swallow back his concern; Geralt had both been walking with much more ease and had been able to manage the stairs on his own this morning. His practice must have taken a serious toll on him, expended energy he either couldn’t afford to expend or simply didn’t have.

After having made the rest of the trip to the dining hall in silence, Jaskier was almost relieved when a man wearing a red shirt and dark pants stepped aside and allowed them to pass through the grand double doors. He was not accustomed to such silence, and couldn’t help but feel as though Geralt was pushing him away. Though he had his guesses as to why, part of him hoped the Witcher would open up to him again. Even Geralt couldn’t be so idiotic as to think he needed to push the bard away because he believed he was about to die.

As soon as they entered the dining hall, Geralt forcefully pulled away from Jaskier’s arm, and made himself rely far less on the stick, using it more as a stabilizer than the heavy support the bard had just witnessed on their walk down. All an act, but am impressive one nonetheless. The Witcher's pure force of will was astounding, when barely moments ago he had been white and gritting his teeth against the pain.

“Don’t fall.” Jaskier hissed nervously, and Geralt shot him a look that told him in no uncertain terms to shut his mouth.

“Geralt,” a loud voice boomed almost at the same time, “Good to see you again! And Jaskier, of course. I was beginning to worry the two of you had gotten lost in the storm. Dangerous things prowl outside the walls of my lodge, particularly this late at night. Wouldn't want to see you getting caught up in more trouble, particularly with our campaign due to head out so soon. I'd find myself without my most valuable strategist.”

Jaskier gave Eist a watery smile as he followed Geralt into the hall, trying not to feel awed by the sheer amount of luxury that the place was bathed in. The rest of the lodge was ostentatious, but this room was covered in rich drapes, expensively commissioned oil paintings of Eist posing with various stags he must have brought down. The windows went from the floor all the way to the ceiling, and they were interspersed with a beautiful pattern of stained glass that Jaskier was sure would have been even more stunning if rays of sunshine had managed to filter their way through the rain clouds and cast their light upon the coloured panels. Even the table was decorated with several pure silver candleholders, several roasted wild boars simply overflowing with rare vegetables, and a swan with the feathers still on perched aristocratically at the head of the table. There was an enormous piece of radiantly pink fruit wedged in its beak. The bard tried not to gape at the sheer expense that must have gone into creating such a feast. There weren’t even any other dinner guests to share it with. He wondered if they were somehow supposed to eat all of it themselves.

“My apologies for the state of things,” the Jarl must have noticed Jaskier’s wide-eyed expression, “The hunting’s been good these past weeks, and I’ve had no one to share my bounty with as of yet. Her Majesty has had matters to attend to in court that have kept her from joining me. Though I doubt the two of you will mind helping me try to finish some of this off. You look like you haven’t seen a good meal in months.”

Giving a polite smile and nod, Jaskier eased himself into a chair and looked up with some concern as Geralt awkwardly seated himself as well. His bad leg was splayed uncomfortably underneath the table; the knee joint was still clearly far too stiff to bend. His face also looked unpleasantly pale, with a slight greenish tinge to it. He hadn’t managed to keep anything stronger than broth and a little bread down, and it was clear his stomach wasn’t relishing the idea of going from that to eating such a lavish spread.

“Thank you,” Geralt sounded exhausted beyond measure when he spoke, “But I’m not sure it would be wise for me to eat…all this…at the moment.”

“I thought as much. There’s bread and fruit interspersed among the meats.”

With a poorly concealed sigh, Geralt picked up an apple and allowed the one footman in the room to pour him half a glass of wine before he raised his hand to signal it was enough. The Witcher looked very tired. For his part, Jaskier indulged in a bit off one of the flanks of the boar nearest him, trying not to gape when Eist filled his plate near brimming with succulent meats and potatoes and tucked in with reckless abandon. Though, he supposed, that was the Skelligan way. The people of the isles were far less concerned with decorum than those who lived on the mainland.

* * *

It was many hours longer than Geralt would have liked before they finally finished the last course, and excused themselves from Eist’s drawing room to retire for the night. He felt a bit lightheaded; the wine had been very good and very sweet, and the Jarl had also plied him with some brandy that had been too fine to refuse. The whole affair left him feeling a bit more off-balance than he would have preferred, and his mind was buzzing with the information they had discussed. Eist had been eager to develop a plan for the siege and recapture of Errowhal as soon as possible, and Geralt felt exhausted from the night of discussing strategy and tactics and the positioning of various units. The planning of military operations was not something he was asked to advise upon often, and, being tired and wounded, he had deferred almost entirely to Eist’s judgement. The whole thing had still drained him more than he wanted to admit, though.

Long past the point of caring about such things, he allowed Jaskier to help him limp up the stairs and slung his arm around the bard’s shoulder as they made their way back to his quarters.

“Perhaps hold off on the brandy next time,” Jaskier teased him lightly, “You seemed tired enough beforehand. And you’re a good deal heavier than you look.”

For some reason, Geralt didn’t find the bard’s little quips as frustrating as he might have weeks ago, though he couldn’t for the life of him understand why. Now, they kindled something almost akin to warmth in his stomach, and made his lips quirk up in the faintest of smiles before he even realized that was what he was doing.

“It was good brandy.”

“Indeed it was.”

Before Geralt knew what was happening, he found himself being deposited back in the bed they had been sharing, and Jaskier was manhandling his shirt over his head. The Witcher hissed slightly when it caught on the still-tender burns that formed a ring around his neck, and pushed the bard away.

“It’s fine. Go to sleep.”

“You’re planning on sleeping in these?”

“Hmm.”

Jaskier gave a little laugh that sounded rather choked, and a moment later the mattress dipped as the bard settled himself in bed.

“Get as much rest as you can,” he murmured sleepily, in a voice that couldn’t help but sound musical after so many years spent plying his craft by singing, “Wouldn’t want you to still have a hangover before you go.”

Geralt chose to ignore the poorly concealed melancholy note about the bard’s voice. It would do neither of them any good to dwell on what might happen when Geralt returned with Eist’s men to Errowhal. In his state, he knew there was statistically very little chance that he would come out unscathed. But, reminded of Blaviken and the lesser evil of his own death compared to that of the deaths of the hundreds of innocents who lived under Corvin’s rule, truly he knew he had no choice at all.

* * *

It seemed to be mere moments after Geralt had drifted off that he woke up, feeling as sore as he seemed to every morning these days, and very unrested. He sighed, squeezed his eyes shut, hoping he could fall back asleep even though he knew that was an impossibility. A soft hand was resting on his shoulder, and he opened his eyes to meet Jaskier’s bright blue ones, staring down at him with a strange, melancholy sort of expression.

“Fuck, bard,” he grumbled, trying to overcome what felt almost like embarrassment under a heavy layer of gruffness and ill-mannered irritation, “If you’re going to stare at me like that, you might as well just wake me and get it over with.”

“Sorry,” Jaskier formed the words slowly, and he blinked as though he hadn’t really been all the way present, “I wasn’t really staring at you, perse. More just…contemplating. Composing. While my eyes happened to be pointed in your direction.”

“Hmm.” Yes, that was definitely embarrassment now. Feeling relieved he couldn’t blush, Geralt rolled over and pushed himself up, contemplating why Jaskier had spurred such a reaction in him. People stared at him all the time, with varying degrees of malice and hatred, and sometimes lust. But none of those emotions had been present in the bard’s face. Perhaps that was why it had put Geralt off so. He knew he didn’t take well to the unfamiliar.

“How are you feeling this morning? You seemed uncharacteristically inebriated last night.”

“All the herbs you’ve been giving me must have lowered my tolerance. I’m fine, though. Need to get packed; Eist wants to leave early tomorrow morning.”

It caused Geralt more than a little discomfort to see how quickly that statement stopped the bard’s prattling. Jaskier went from sleepy-eyed but open to shut off, tired, closed away. He nodded slightly and stood, offering Geralt an arm.

“I can do that. If you want to rest.”

Taking the proffered arm until he managed to get a good grip on his stick and limp away on his own, Geralt shook his head. He snatched his pack up with his toe and dragged it over, easing himself onto the floor with a groan and beginning to review its contents. Most of his things were objects required for a solitary life on the road, not a campaign of a few days, one from which he would most likely not return from alive. His pack would be far lighter for this trip than he was used to. With more melancholy than he had thought he would feel when confronting his own end, he realized it would be easier for whatever soldier had to carry it back as well. Surely, Jaskier would want it. If only to go through his things to find useful things for himself. Perhaps the bard would return the rest of it to Kaer Morhen. Later, Geralt would have to tell him the way, in a discreet fashion, so the bard didn’t guess why.

When Geralt was done choosing what he would bring and oiling his blades, Jaskier had retreated out to the balcony with his book, the same one that the Witcher had picked up a few days prior. He was wrapped in a blanket, though the air sweeping down off the mountains was not particularly chill. Geralt limped heavily over and leaned himself against the back of the armchair. For a ridiculous moment, a small part of his brain told him to place his hands on the bard’s shoulders. He shook it off. Sentimental notions were not ones he liked to dwell upon. Though Jaskier’s shoulders did look slumped and tense, in need of someone to rub out the knots. Geralt hesitated, hands lifted halfway off the armchair, until Jaskier turned abruptly and he started, quickly putting his hands back for support as his injured leg wobbled.

“Alright?”

“Sore.”

Another shadow crossed the bard’s face, and he stood quickly.

“Here, take this chair. It’s got the ottoman, so you can rest your leg a bit. I’m more than happy to lean up against the railing.”

“It’s fine. I’ll go sit inside. Join me, if you’d like.”

Not turning to see what the bard chose, Geralt limped back inside to the couch and eased himself down upon it, suddenly feeling very tired for too many reasons. He had a headache now, though it was definitely not from Eist’s brandy. He leaned back and closed his eyes, feeling the couch dip hesitantly next to him as the bard sat down as well.

“I…I can rub your head for you. You’ve gone all flushed, the way you do when you’ve a headache. If you’d like, you can come rest in my lap.”

That sounded nice, Geralt thought. It was a weak, craven thing to do, but it sounded so very pleasant to curl himself around the bard’s warmth and let Jaskier’s clever hands work the throbbing pain out of his temples. Without putting too much thought into it, he eased himself backwards until his head met Jaskier’s warm leg. The bard gave a little gasp, as though he hadn’t actually expected Geralt to take him up on his offer. His hands were tremulous and hesitant when he began to rub Geralt’s temples, but the Witcher sighed happily, hoping he had reassured him that it felt good.

“Better?”

“Yes. And since you’re here, there’s something you should know before I go tomorrow.”

“Oh?”

“Kaer Morhen. Travel to Kaedwen and follow the river East until you reach an offshoot that will take you up a valley. The fortress is located at the end of the valley. If you see the lake, it means you’ve gone too far.”

Jaskier’s hands stilled in Geralt’s hair. His breath hitched a bit, and the Witcher cracked an eye to see what had happened.

“Jaskier…”

“Don’t,” the bard’s voice shook, and a single tear dripped off the end of his upturned nose and splashed, hot and salty, onto Geralt’s cheek, “Talk about this like you’re going to die. Don’t give me directions back to your home, because you’re going to take me there yourself, when and if you want to. I don’t want to go there alone. Your brothers, from what you’ve said of them, would probably run me through anyways. And you are _not_ going to die, Geralt. Not fighting some thrice-damned elf lord in the midst of a bloody battlefield. Not on my watch.”

Geralt blinked, perplexed and feeling a strange sort of pain in his chest, right below his ribcage. He moved a hand to clutch at it.

“It’s only practical,” he stated, feeling rather idiotic that the bard had seen right through him, “I don’t want my things sold off at auction to the highest bidder. And this promises to be a bloody battle. Not the type I’m used to, either.”

Jaskier’s calloused thumb rubbed at Geralt’s cheek, dislodging the tear that had landed there.

“You don’t need to be practical about this,” the bard said forcefully, “Because you’re not going to die. You’ll be just fine. Just don’t be an idiot, stay back from the front lines and don’t get off Roach, no matter what. Your leg will be fine so long as you don’t have to walk on it, right?”

The bard’s lower lip was still trembling, and Geralt was reminded again of just how young he was. He looked no more than a boy, sitting her now, pure hurt and pain written more clearly on his face than words on the pages of a book. Suddenly overcome by some sort of strange urge, the Witcher placed a hand on his thigh and squeezed gently.

“I’ll do my best.”

With that, he slid forwards and pushed himself up against the backrest of the couch, making room for Jaskier next to him. He jerked his head at the open spot.

“You…looked tired. And I could use the rest as well. Come here.” He felt so damnably awkward about the whole thing, but there was no turning back now. And he knew he had made the right choice when Jaskier’s face lit up a little.

“Would you like a blanket? I know you’re still getting over that blood loss.”

Nodding, Geralt let his eyes fall shut. When the bard draped a blanket over the two of them and slotted himself into the small hollow left behind by Geralt’s body, the Witcher draped an arm over his shoulder tiredly, and let himself drift away. Jaskier was warm, and even his breaths were rhythmic and musical. It was far too easy for the Witcher to simply let himself fade out to that sound. Perhaps, he thought sleepily, if he made it back from Errowhal alive, they could do this more often. When the nights were cold and the bard couldn’t warm himself, it would make

far more sense to stay warm this way than burn extra firewood. Though, Geralt thought to himself, he knew such a statement was no more than an excuse. An excuse for something more.

* * *

It must have been far later in the afternoon when Geralt awoke with a start and the sudden, unpleasant feeling that he had been falling. Gasping, he pushed himself upright, dislodging Jaskier and causing the bard to wake as well and nearly tip off the couch and onto the floor.

“Fuck,” Geralt reached up and rubbed at his forehead sleepily, “Forgot you were there.”

There was something else, though. He rarely woke so abruptly unless there was something or someone watching him, a feeling to which his senses had grown very attuned since he had set out on the Path as barely more than a boy. And now, every hair on his arms stood on end, though it was not cold. There was a strange prickling feeling at the back of his neck, and every instinct and nerve in his entire body screamed that he and Jaskier were no longer alone. Immediately, all vestiges of sleep left him. Every sense was on high alert, and very slowly, he placed a hand on Jaskier’s shoulder and pushed the bard back down on the couch.

“Hey! Geralt, what…why are you pushing me? I’m going to fall off!”

“Quiet,” Geralt hissed, shoulders hunched over and heart hammering in his chest, “We aren’t alone. Stay down.”

Jaskier’s previously sleepy blue eyes widened, and Geralt heard his pulse begin thundering in his chest.

“Who is it?” The bard whispered tremulously, far more fearful sounding than Geralt had ever heard him. Rage with Corvin swirled in his gut.

“I don’t know. Whatever happens, you _stay down_ , understand? Wait until I tell you it’s safe.”

Gulping, the bard nodded, though his hand tangled briefly in Geralt’s fingers. The Witcher couldn’t help but indulge it for a moment. Jaskier’s hand was heavy and warm, and for some reason that warmth seemed to travel straight to his gut, and gave him the strength to stand even though his sore knee made him obscenely wobbly.

As soon as he stood, he snatched up the steel sword which he had abandoned on the carpet the previous night. He stood for a moment, sword in hand, barely wavering, as he tried to determine the source of his unease. It took a moment, and then he heard it. Over Jaskier’s hammering heart, and the wind sifting through the trees outside and softly ruffling the curtains. Through the distant braying of a wild bird and the soft rush of a mountain waterfall that filtered in through the open window. It was the sound of breath, drawn slowly, brokenly, as though it was being filtered through aged lungs by someone who was not used to such an impediment. The sound came from just beyond the door, and Geralt crept towards it.

“Who’s there?” Jaskier’s voice was a bit stronger now, and he was watching with wide blue eyes.

“Quiet,” Geralt spoke more harshly than he meant to, and regretted it as the bard’s face fell, “I don’t know. Stay down and stay quiet.”

Jaskier’s head disappeared behind the couch, and Geralt splayed his fingers out on the wooden door. Ever so carefully, trying to make as little noise as possible, he allowed it to swing open. It did so, with an ominous creak that echoed through the room and up and down the hall outside. The breathing faltered, but no one entered the room.

“Show yourself,” Geralt rasped, growing tired of whatever game the person was playing, “I’m sure Lord Eist wouldn’t be happy to find his staff listening at the keyholes of his guests.”

A vague rustling, probably undetectable to anyone without a Witcher’s ability to hear. The shuffling of feet. And then a person rounded the door, bowed over, moving with aching slowness. Samuel, the druid healer. With a sigh of relief, Geralt almost dropped his sword, only his training preventing him from completely letting his guard down despite the trembling in his arm. There was still some weakness flitting through his bones, and he hated it. Hated that he had allowed Corvin to wound him so.

“What are you doing here, druid?”

Samuel didn’t look up at Geralt’s question. He shuffled forwards slowly, painfully, and immediately Geralt knew there was something very wrong here. His medallion, which had been off for the whole time the druid had been tending to him, was vibrating so hard against his chest that he could practically feel it in his teeth. The old man still didn’t acknowledge him, didn’t look up. And then, all at once, he did.

At first his eyes were dark brown, normal looking, the way Geralt had become used to seeing them. But then, as though a curtain had been pulled away, they suddenly flitted to blue. A pale, icy blue, unforgiving and harsh and horribly familiar. Pain shot through Geralt’s knee, and an image flashed through his head. An image of galloping away from Errowhal, barely conscious on Roach’s back, Jaskier holding him upright. As they had escaped, he had spared a hazy glance over his shoulder. And he had encountered those dead, cold, blue eyes watching him mirthfully from atop the Keep’s wall. They were the eyes that belonged to Corvin.

In the same moment as Geralt was working all this out, there was suddenly a slight motion in front of him. Samuel…or, well, not-Samuel, was reaching into his robe. And in the same instance, there was a commotion behind him, a rustling as Jaskier vaulted over the couch and shouted at him.

“Geralt, look out, he has a knife!”

If there was ever a type of statement that could rouse Geralt from a reverie, it was a warning of imminent danger, either to himself or to someone else. He shook his head, breaking the spell of shock, and hefted the sword that had previously been held limply in his hand. Just barely, he was able to deflect Samuel’s cut. However, where he had expected the weak arm of an aging man, there was strength to match his own. No tremors affected the druid’s hand now, and when Geralt looked up, he saw to his horror that Samuel’s face was slowly melting and changing, as though it were nothing more than wax heated by a flame. The skin dripped away, shifted, tightened from wrinkled and old to smooth and eternally youthful. Hooded eyes turned to almond-shaped ones, and even his hands and posture slowly shifted, drawing ever upward, lengthening and growing in elegance and grace. Before Geralt and Jaskier’s horrified eyes, the old man that had once stood before them morphed into their tormentor, living, breathing, and all too real. Geralt heard Jaskier’s intake of breath, the rabbiting pulse of his heart. He hated to admit that his own was nearly keeping tempo. Images of the dungeons and the dimeritium shackles about his wrists flashed before his eyes, and he tried to keep himself impassive as Corvin met his gaze. The elf was imperious, amused. He let out a low chuckle.

“Really, Geralt,” he drawled, voice strung out and drunk on power, “I thought, for all your mutations, there would be one that increased your intelligence. Here I’ve been, under your very nose for days, and not a suspicious glance was turned my way. Truly, I am disappointed in you. Perhaps, when we return to Errowhal, further mutations will be necessary. See if we can’t begin to learn how to fix your stupidity a bit.”

Geralt breathed heavily in and out through his nose, trying to keep a level gaze as Corvin bore down upon him. The elf looked so victorious, so full of pride and pleasure. Perhaps, Geralt thought dazedly, that could be used to his and Jaskier’s advantage. Even if Geralt wasn’t able to get away from here, he had to try to give Jaskier a chance. To do what he had failed to do the last time they had been captured. Angry, heedless of the stabbing pain that was shooting through the barely healed wound on his knee, he lunged forward, caught the dagger against his own blade, and shoved it towards Corvin’s chest.

“You made a poor choice in blades,” he snarled as the elf pushed back against him, “A dagger with a hooked blade, for combat in close quarters? Truly, I am disappointed in you.”

Corvin’s eyes blazed momentarily with rage when he heard Geralt’s cruel mockery of his own words, and he shoved the Witcher backwards, unhooking their blades and throwing Geralt off balance momentarily. When he had regained his feet, Corvin was lunging at him, blade outstretched, faster than a human eye would have been able to follow. It was only through skill and reflex that Geralt was able to parry the blade and land a shallow cut on the elf’s pale forearm. Corvin snarled again, clutching at the wound.

“Jaskier,” Geralt began backing in the opposite direction from the door in the couch, limping heavily as the pain of his still-healing wound began to register, “Get out of here. Find Roach and ride.”

The bard surfaced from behind the couch at his words even as Corvin chuckled, but he did not bolt for the door. There was a determined set to his jawline, a crease in his eyebrows that Geralt had only ever observed when he was playing a particularly complex melody or focusing on a new composition. But now, the bard looked more predatory than focused. Predatory and furious. The Witcher shook his head, sensing that Jaskier wanted to stand his ground.

“Get _out_. It does no one any good if you get killed here.” _And I would never forgive myself._ Geralt’s tired, hurting mind betrayed him. He shook his head. Stupid sentimentality would get him nowhere in the midst of a battle.

“I’m not going. I left you once before, and I won’t do it again. I’m not a fucking coward, Geralt, and I’m not just going to _abandon_ you here with a barely healed wound. Besides, I have some vengeance of my own I’d like to exact.”

Corvin had stopped his advance to watch their exchange, and he was now chuckling quietly to himself, flipping his dagger lazily in his hand. He looked absurd, still wearing Samuel’s brown robe. And yet, Geralt felt his heartbeat pick up whenever he looked at the elf. It was horrifying. Almost as though he was afraid. Fear would do nothing for him, not now. Not when his own skill with a blade was the only thing standing between him and a return to Corvin’s dungeons and experiments. He shuddered, almost without realizing it.

“Really, the two of you would be the envy of many a couple in these lands, the way you carry on. I so enjoyed watching you care for one another in the days when you first arrived here. It was one of the main reasons I healed you instead of just killing you straight away. Perhaps, shall I leave you two alone, so you can fuck each other before I kill you? I must say, I would prefer you were…warmed up for when I take my turn. There’s something so romantic about fucking someone as you kill them, wouldn’t you say, bard? If I were to let you live, would you write me a ballad about it? About how I fucked your dear, sweet Witcher as he bled out in my arms?”

Geralt was wavering on his feet by this point. His knee was burning, and he was sure he could feel blood running down his leg again. The cut must have reopened. But, just as he was about to heft his sword, blood boiling despite his injuries, Jaskier vaulted over the sofa. Grabbed a dagger that was leaned up against the wall, one of Geralt’s that he had been meaning to clean. With a furious snarl, he moved to stab Corvin in the back, though the elf caught his swing easily, closing his fist around the blade.

“Really, bard? To think you could best me? Pathetic, truly. Not even your beloved Witcher could do that.”

He struck out with his spare hand and caught Jaskier square in the teeth, snapping his head back. When the bard raised it again, there was blood dripping down his chin, and a dazed look in his eyes, as though a cloud had passed over the sun and blotted it out. He blinked twice at Corvin. Raised his hand slowly, deliberately, and pointed behind him. Bared his teeth in a sort of smile, though every line that separated them was blurred with bright blood. The scent of it was coarse and heady on Geralt’s senses.

“You see,” Jaskier’s voice was thick, like he was talking through a mouthful of cake, “I didn’t want to best you. Just distract you.”

Viciously, he snatched up Corvin’s wrist and twisted it as hard as he could. Geralt heard the bones in it snap as though they were hollow, made of no more than glass. Hours of playing the lute had given the bard exceptionally strong hands, though Geralt had never spared a thought for how useful that might be when faced with a dangerous adversary. However, he couldn’t dwell on it any longer. Jaskier’s dazed eyes caught his, and he took his que. His sword was too heavy for him now; he had grown very tired. But there was a dagger strapped to his thigh. Freeing it of its sheath, Geralt flipped it once in his palm, grabbed Corvin by the shoulder, and whirled him about.

“I hope you burn, you fucking whoreson.” Not his most eloquent sendoff, but his knee was hurting and for the first time in his life, Geralt wanted nothing more than to see the light leave his opponent’s eyes. He drove his knife deep into Corvin’s chest. It slipped neatly between his ribs in a practiced thrust, and cut through muscle and tissue as though it was no more than butter, finally coming to rest in the elf’s heart. Geralt kept his hand on the dagger, and as it plunged into its final resting place, he felt the vibrations come up through the blade and the hilt. Corvin’s heart shuddered once, twice, like a trapped bird beating its wings desperately against the bars of its cage. His body convulsed, and a line of blood dripped from between his sculpted lips. A little cough escaped his mouth.

“You’ll burn…with me.” With the last of his strength, Corvin wrapped his surprisingly strong fingers into Geralt’s hair. Disoriented as he was, the Witcher didn’t realize what was going to happen until it was too late. Corvin pulled with all his strength, slamming Geralt’s head down against the corner of an end table overturned in the fight.

As the elf lord’s body shuddered once more and stilled, and Geralt’s vision twisted and turned like a sickening dance at a mayday fair, he had the presence of mind to realize that such a blow would have killed him if he had been anything less than what he was. Funny, he thought, nearly giggling hysterically as hot blood poured down his neck and his sight when dark. Corvin had dedicated himself to studying mutations, and in the end, it had been Geralt’s mutations that had saved him from a near certain death at the elf’s hands. Perhaps he was not so learned as he had presented himself to be.

With that thought, Geralt knew no more.

* * *

Jaskier watched with a sort of horrified fascination as Corvin’s dying body seemed to reach out of its own volition. It snatched at Geralt’s hair, rammed him into a table. Convulsed horrifically, spitting blood and a good deal of other bodily fluids as it finally stilled. And through it all, the bard could do nothing more than watch. He felt as though he was nothing more than an observer, watching the whole scene unfold from another dimension, or as though he was doing nothing more than reading it in a book. He wanted to come to Geralt’s aid as the Witcher coughed and spewed blood, but he couldn’t move. His hands felt dead in his lap, his knees anchored to the floor like he was made of lead.

It was some time before he realized he was shaking. Just a little at first, a leaf in the breeze. And then more violently, until he fell from his kneeling position and curled up on the floor, assaulted by tremors so violent that he could feel his legs and hands kicking out at random, hitting object and toppling things, adding to the further destruction of the room. Tears (or was it just sweat?) dripped down his face. And still, he could not move. Geralt’s breathing was laboured, but he couldn’t go to him. He could do nothing more but lie there, frightened and pinned like a butterfly on display. Many times, he wondered if he was dying. If Corvin had stabbed him and this was the shock finally setting in. But there was no blood. Only that of the elf seeping into the carpet, and of course Geralt’s as it dribbled and seeped gruesomely from the back of his neck. Jaskier was lying in a pool of the stuff, but none of it was his own besides what he could taste on his teeth. With no warning, he turned to the side and vomited.

When he was done, he simply lay there, shocked, too shocked even to move himself away from the pool of vomit and blood. His vision fazed in and out. The ornately carved ceiling blurred and refocused above him. There were footsteps in the hallway, thudding and loud and urgent and making his ringing head ache.

Wait…footsteps? Jaskier froze. Even his breathing hitched to a halt in his shaking chest. He lay completely still, completely silent. His hands trembled, and he clenched them to still them. This place could be full of enemies. Corvin could easily have brought his men with him, enchanted them with glamours and watched them melt into the fabric of the house. It was a cowardly thing, but he wondered if they came across him and Geralt now, perhaps they would assume they were both dead, and leave their bodies to rot. Geralt’s face was deathly pale. He looked most of the way there already.

When the door crashed open to the sound of armoured boots, though, the voice Jaskier heard was familiar, and filled him with a giddy sort of relief.

“What in the devil happened in here?” Eist sounded thunderous, and his men quickly spread about, securing the windows and the one other door that led into the servants’ hall. Jaskier pushed himself upright on trembling arms, blinking as his vision dipped in and out of focus.

“Eist…” he felt very faint, and suddenly the lord was next to him, one arm wrapped around his shoulders, propping him up, “I…it was Corvin. Here.”

“Someone get him some damn water!”

There was a great scurrying of feet, and a glass was pushed into Jaskier’s hands. They were trembling so badly that it spilled and slopped down his cold arms. A hand wrapped around his own and steadied him, getting him to drink.

“I’ll hear the whole story when you’ve recovered,” the Jarl’s voice was suddenly far gentler, “My men will scour the rest of the grounds and make sure none of Corvin’s men are still about. I’ll have a healer brought in as well. We’ve just discovered that my man has been dead for some time.”

Jaskier nodded shakily, wondering if that was how they had discovered something was wrong. Though their fight had probably caused enough of a racket to be heard throughout the whole valley. He couldn’t really be bothered with that at the moment, though. He was suddenly so tired, and his mouth tasted of iron and ozone. His arms were maneuvered over two sets of very broad shoulders, and he felt his toes dragging against the floor as he was pulled from the room. Vaguely, as though he was listening from underwater, a voice filtered through.

“Garrick, get that body out of here.”

Jaskier realized belatedly that he had no idea if the body they were referring to was Corvin’s or Geralt’s.


	11. A Near Miss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Discussions are had, at least in part. Jaskier regains some control over a part of his mind he thought would always haunt him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! Hope you're doing well! I'm feeling...eh...suddenly very self-conscious about my characterization. I've read a lot of pics recently where the characterization is just so incredibly accurate and I feel like I have a tendency to take my characters in a different direction from the original creator. So if any of you feel that way too please let me know so I can fix it and make it better!
> 
> That's all! Enjoy <3

He had no idea where he was. From the moment he awoke, feeling dizzy and sick and worse than he remembered last feeling, he was completely disoriented. Even with his eyes closed, the world seemed to tilt about his body like the pitching deck of a ship. The last memory he had was of Corvin’s dead blue eyes. Of the elf lord’s cruel laugh. He must have been captured again. Perhaps Corvin was spiriting him away to some desolate isle where he could continue on with his experiments undisturbed. It was then that Geralt decided he didn’t particularly want to open his eyes. If this was to be reality now, then he wasn’t ready to face it. Cowardly as that seemed.

Vesemir would have tanned his hide to see the way he had been comporting himself these last few weeks, Geralt thought ruefully, trying to distract his aching mind from the pitching and tipping around him. He had spent more time in the last short while laid up in bed than he had spent in the last several years. Getting slow, the old Witcher would say. And slow Witchers were never long for this world. Perhaps the toll the extended mutations had taken on Geralt’s body was finally catching up to him, shortening his lifespan. Either way, he had been careless. Reckless. Endangering both himself and the bard with so little thought was unforgiveable.

_Jaskier._ Geralt’s eyes slammed open. He passed out again as the light slammed back, bright and new and cold and far too much.

* * *

Later on, Jaskier would never be able to recount the exact way events had transpired once Eist and his men entered the bedchamber. He remembered a good deal of shaking, of someone plying him with water and the way it rinsed the taste of sickness and iron from his sore mouth. Some soldiers must have dragged him off, and he remembered there being mentions of a body. A body that surely could not be Geralt’s. The man was invincible. Even recovering from such a severe wound to his knee, he had taken up his sword and killed Corvin. Surely, he would survive a simple knock to the head. It seemed almost too ironic for him to die in such an unimpressive way.

The longer Jaskier lay, though, the more unsure he became. The soldiers had deposited him on a daybed in a sunroom, like a maiden who had suddenly begun feeling faint. Left with nothing better to do, his mind began to whirl, the cogs grinding about slowly as he tried to piece together what had already happened, and what the consequences of it might be.

_He wasn’t as well as he was claiming to be,_ a cruel little voice that sounded suspiciously like Jaskier’s father snickered, _You knew that. Watched as he limped about and straightened himself up when he saw someone coming. Helped him back to your rooms when he couldn’t manage the stairs on his own. Rubbed his temples when he was experiencing headaches from all the stress to his body and his mind. You even lay idly by while he was caught in the grips of nightmares, calling out your name, because you were too frightened to waken him. You’re a coward. And now he’s probably lying somewhere dead, by your hand as much as Corvin’s._

The bard let out a shaky little sob at the thought. He couldn’t imagine it, and at the same time it was all too vivid in his mind. Geralt’s face, pale and serene in death in a way that it never was in life. His amber eyes, half closed, misting over a bit in the way that the first frost of fall creeps over a glass pane. Hands, scarred by years lived by the sword, folded with terrible finality over his still heart. The romantic in him was in awe of the image. The rest of him wanted nothing more than to curl up in a heap and cry until his tears ran dry.

_That’s right. Curl up and cry. It’s all you’re good for. You certainly didn’t do Geralt much good, for all your meddling. He would have been better off without you. If it hadn’t been for your weakness, he never would have met Corvin in the first place. And that heart of his wouldn’t be so conspicuously still now._

Jaskier shuddered a moment longer. His cheeks were cold from the tears dribbling down them, and his breath stuttered and struggled to regain rhythm. In a gruesome parallel, his hands folded over his chest in the same way that he had just envisioned Geralt’s corpse doing. Noble, composed. Everything he was not.

Except, Geralt had already told him none of this was his fault. It seemed like eons ago, their conversation in the dungeon. He remembered feeling a combination of relief and amusement when they discovered that they had both been tearing themselves apart with guilt. But mostly it had been relief, that he had not failed the one man who had ever been able to accept him as a companion. As someone worthy of friendship. Jaskier didn’t dare think love. Geralt didn’t love him. No matter how much the bard might have wished it.

“I’m not a coward,” he spoke the words shakily but loudly, a vocal rebuttal to his father’s voice that lived inside his head, “And this wasn’t my fault. Gods above, I don’t even know if he’s dead. And you _can’t_ bury me in guilt again. I won’t let you.”

It felt absurd, to be carrying on a conversation with himself. But there was a part of Jaskier’s father that lived in his head always, judging his every choice, second-guessing his every move. It was as though the man had implanted himself there the day Jaskier had renounced his title and left his family’s estate. His father’s final, spiteful gift to him. The constant shackling to his roots, never able to escape the judgement and hatred that they were synonymous with.

But now, there was a new voice in his mind. One that was rich and deep and held a tinge of amusement and a heap of patience in it. It sounded suspiciously like Geralt’s, though Jaskier was too tired to dwell on the implications of that. At the moment, it served merely as a buffer. A meagre layer of protection between himself and the man who still sought to destroy his mind and every dream he had ever held dear. Clinging to the protection of it, Jaskier sought to reassure himself.

_Geralt isn’t dead. Not until you have proof. And he doesn’t blame you for any of this, not even when it was your suggestion that led him right into Corvin’s home. So, stop your panicking and your grieving. That’s no way to carry on until you have irrefutable proof that you should be. Just take deep breaths. Try to rest._

Yes, that voice definitely sounded like Geralt’s now. He had a vague memory of the Witcher saying something similar to him months ago, when he had woken from the grips of a terrible nightmare involving his father strangling him with the catgut strings of his lute, and then turning his own guts into string which he then used to play a merry tune celebrating his son’s demise. Not a pleasant memory until he had woken to Geralt’s deep baritone, drawling words along those lines. In the morning, the Witcher had grunted his way out of taking responsibility for it. But Jaskier knew better than to assume it was a figment of his imagination alone.

Now, that memory calmed him. Chased away the hard lines and sharp edges of his father’s voice, which was as surprising as it was wonderful. It had been years since Jaskier had been without the Viscount de Lettenhove voicing his displeasure throughout the caverns of his mind. And it was a welcome alternative to simply taking those words and turning them on their head, turning them into song. The bard didn’t think he had the energy for that at the moment.

“You can leave off,” his voice gained a bit more courage, “He’s _not_ dead until I know he is. And you aren’t even here.”

There was silence. Perfect, serene. Jaskier leaned back and revelled in it, revelled in the lack of guilt and the feeling that, for the first time in days, he was really and truly at peace. And not just because he had managed, for the time being, to drive his father’s voice from his mind. Corvin was gone. Dead, for sure. He had watched Geralt run the elf lord through, watched as the light left his eyes. It was as though a weight he hadn’t even realized he had been carrying had been lifted from his shoulders, leaving him feeling lighter than air. He was concerned, yes. Worried for his friend. But the undeniable brightness of optimism was coating his thoughts for the first time in what seemed like ages.

He revelled in that feeling for a while. Of course, he was also very tired and probably in shock, so he drifted a bit as well. Shivered and wrapped a fur around his shoulders. Watched the rain, still pouring down from the sky, pounding and hammering against the windowpanes of the sunroom and making them rattle fiercely. It was comforting, to be inside and out of the cold.

“Feeling better?” The voice came before any sound of feet against the hardwood floor, though perhaps Jaskier had simply been too far away from the present to hear them. He jumped, clutched the fur to his chest, spun around. It was just Eist, though, leaning casually in the doorway. Jaskier wondered how long he had been standing there.

“Y-yes, thank you,” the bard tried, unsuccessfully, to keep the tremor from his voice, “I’m sorry…about the room.”

“Not important. It’ll be cleaned by tomorrow; all signs of that bastard will be erased from this place forever. Such men don’t deserve to bear on legacies.”

Jaskier nodded in agreement and sat up on the daybed, moving over as Eist came and sat down next to him. He sighed tiredly. The bard bit his lip, wanting to ask after Geralt but his heart pounding at the uncertainty of what the news might be.

“I feel like I’m the one that owes you an apology, after all you’ve been through,” the Jarl sounded exhausted, overworked and overwhelmed, “I had meant to have you here as somewhere to recover beyond Corvin’s grasp. And while Geralt’s role as the guardian of my granddaughter is important to me, it’s not the only reason I invited you here. He’s a good man. No such man should be left wanting in the cold, especially when he’s wounded. I had hoped…perhaps he would come to consider me a friend. Might make up a bit for my wife’s deplorable treatment of him. He should know he has allies within his child surprise’s family. And now…well, what I’ve done is nothing short of a failure, a betrayal of both of your trust and a dishonour to my name and house.”

Things truly were done differently on the Skelligan Isles, Jaskier thought bemusedly. He had never heard a monarch apologize before, especially not openly like this. It was rather amusing to think of Eist’s wife, the haughty Queen Calanthe, prostrating herself in such a way in front of a disgraced viscount and a Witcher.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Jaskier had to dig deep to find some courtly manners, swaying with exhaustion as he was, “If anything, it’s me who should be apologizing to you, for bringing such violence and danger into your home.”

Eist chuckled wryly.

“My men were growing bored, with nothing but hunting and shooting to pass the days by. You offered them a merry diversion. A chance to win honour for their wives and suitors waiting for them back home.”

They sat like that for a moment, Jaskier twisting his hands nervously in his lap, words on his lips but lacking the courage to allow them to spill out of his mouth. The Jarl seemed to catch on to what was bothering him, though, and turned.

“I’ve summoned a healer from nearby, the best they could spare. But my men already had a look over him, it seems to be nothing more than a concussion. Common fare for men who live a life like his. He’ll be groggy and sore for a few days, and most likely very confused, but you don’t need to worry after him. I’ll send the healer to see to you as well, make sure there aren’t any wounds you looked over during the shock of it all. I know I’ve done that myself a time or twenty.”

Jaskier slumped with relief upon hearing that Geralt was alive. He cursed the voice in his head as well, for making him question, even for a moment, that the Witcher would be anything less than fine. He had survived far worse in Corvin’s dungeons, though he had come out all the worse for wear. And he was still healing. Hopefully none of that progress would be set back by what had happened, though Jaskier had a hard time imagining that it wouldn’t be. He leaned back, and Eist stood.

“When you’re feeling up to it, just pull the bell over by the fire. Someone will come and take you to him. Though I’d suggest you get some rest first. When was the last time you had a proper sleep?”

A wave of desperation surged through the bard, and it was all he could do not to stand up and shout at the Jarl. Now that he was aware that Geralt was alive, he had been suddenly overcome by an extreme, all-consuming need to see the Witcher.

“No,” he struggled to keep his voice even and contained, “thank you. I’d like to go see him now, if I can. I…I’ll rest easier once I’ve seen him with my own two eyes.”

It was true, but for some reason it felt extremely intimate to say it out loud. Eist, however, did not question it, simply nodding and offering an arm, which Jaskier took gratefully. Together, they departed the sunroom and wove their ways through the long, subdued halls while trophies of past hunts gazed balefully down upon them. It was quieter, once they were away from the pounding rain, but the bard did not find it comforting. Everywhere he looked, he felt as though Corvin was about to spring forth and attack them. Every shadowed inlet held a thousand staring eyes, and every corner a dagger ready to catch him in the gut. He wondered if this was how Geralt felt, constantly on guard. It was an exhausting way to live, and Jaskier felt miserable that his friend should be constantly in such a state of vigilance. They must discuss it, he thought, when Geralt awoke. Perhaps it would make both of them feel a bit more at ease.

* * *

The next time Geralt came to, it was to the distant sound of hushed voices. In fact, it was so distant that it felt more like an easy movement of the air than an actual intelligible sound. The sort of susurrating gentleness that comes when wind blows through a trembling aspen in the autumn, instead of the recognizable cadence of a human voice. Very strange, he thought. Both the poeticism of his thoughts and the fact that he seemed unable to parse the noise around him. He shifted, uncomfortable with all of it, and winced as his body ached in harmony. Every inch of him felt like it was black and blue, though he knew better than to open his eyes and check. The ebbing voices ceased abruptly. There was a brief shuffling. A cool, welcome hand fell gently on his forehead.

“Geralt? Can you hear me?”

Ah. That he could understand, though it took a moment for the sounds to take on a proper meaning. But there was something more, as well. That voice…

_Jaskier._

Throwing caution to the wind, Geralt wrenched his eyes open and tried to ignore the fact that it felt more difficult than lifting a tonne of bricks. He didn’t manage to contract his pupils; his head hurt too much, and his eyes watered at the light and failed to render anything more than vague, blurry outlines. One of them looked a bit like the bard’s face, though, and he clung to that. Clung to the hope that Corvin hadn’t killed Jaskier. That perhaps the elf lord was dead, and they were both safe and alright.

“Hey, easy,” the bard’s voice was there again, soft and gentle with an undertone of pure exhaustion that made Geralt’s own eyes feel heavy, “You’ve had a hard hit to the head, no need to take it all at once.”

“Mmm…’skier?” The words felt like cotton in Geralt’s dry mouth. He licked his lips and tried to ignore the way his body seemed to be trying to fall asleep without his consent. He felt very dizzy.

“One and the same. Shall I get you some water? The healer said I shouldn’t keep you talking, just make sure you hadn’t completely taken leave of your senses.”

Geralt nodded, and quickly thought better of it as it set the whole blurry scene off spinning like a pinwheel at a mayday fair. He failed to hold back a groan; fists buried in the sheets in an effort to anchor himself. It was easy to forget how bastard unpleasant a bad concussion could be, he thought blearily. At least with a fever you were usually too delirious to understand entirely how much pain you were in. But now, awake and trying to make sense of the blurry shapes around him, Geralt felt as though there was an ice pick being driven through his skull. The world had no axis, no sense of gravity or even up and down. He wanted to throw up, and tried to swallow it back before Jaskier noticed there was anything amiss.

Presently (it could have been minutes or hours later; Geralt had no real concept of the time anymore), someone gently helped him lift his head a bit and poured some cold water into his mouth. He swallowed, mostly on reflex, though it felt very good to no longer have the distinct sensation that someone had dried out his mouth with cotton. The change in the position of his head was a bit less pleasant, but Geralt closed his eyes and breathed through his nose and rode out the pain as he was settled back down again. Someone was combing their fingers softly through his hair, fussing with what must have been the end of a bandage, wiping a bit of sweat off his forehead. It felt damned good, and he was currently too weak to stop the words before they spilled clumsily over his tongue.

“’S good, bard.”

“Ah,” Jaskier gave what almost seemed like a nervous little giggle, “Is it really? You’re quite the flatterer, you know. Though I wish it didn’t take such horrible things happening to get you there.”

“Hmm. You…d’serve it.” Well. Perhaps he shouldn’t have been quite so open about it. Too late now. His words felt like water, pouring from between his lips before he was even entirely aware that they were there.

“Oh, my dear. I suppose you won’t remember any of this when you wake properly. How do you feel?”

“M’head hurts.” Another slip up. Damn if it wasn’t irritating to have no control over his own tongue. He had meant to reassure the bard he was fine, perhaps give him a glare to make sure he knew nothing had changed. But somehow, it felt as though everything had changed at that Geralt had absolutely no control over it.

“I suppose it does. The healer said no painkillers until you were a bit more conscious. No use drugging you up so much we can’t wake you again. I don’t suppose you could go back to sleep, try to get some rest?”

The truth was that Geralt was very, very tired. His eyes felt hazy and sore and they kept drooping shut before he pulled them back open again, each time with greater effort. His head pounded and shifted and rushed like the ebb and flow of a tide. Blearily, he realized that the bard had taken his hand in his own, and was rubbing his calloused fingers absentmindedly over Geralt’s knuckles as he hummed to himself. It was soothing, and sweet, and all too comforting. Geralt tried to remind himself he shouldn’t indulge overmuch, that taking such comfort now would only hurt him more when the bard inevitable left him, or worse, when Geralt accidentally got him killed. But he couldn’t help himself, just this once. He closed his eyes, melted into the touch, sighed tiredly. Jaskier murmured something unimportant, drew a hand over his brow. The bard sounded very tired, and Geralt wanted to invite him to join him on the bed, but his mouth wasn’t working anymore. He mumbled it out sleepily, but it was clear it made no sense. His eyes drooped with more finality then, and he rested.

He couldn’t truly sleep, though. There was too much of a pounding in his skull, too many thoughts racing about his head like leaves in a gale. They were disorganized, fleeting things, but Geralt had the impression that each one of them was incredibly important, if only he could get a firm grip on what they might be. Frustrated and feeling very hot, he shifted, his face dragging sweatily across the pillow. The whole thing was terribly uncomfortable.

It was some time before he became aware enough to notice that Jaskier must have caught on to his discomfort. There was a damp cloth on his forehead, and a warm weight resting on his right arm, a finger rubbing gently over newly healed scar tissue on his wrist. He sighed, forced his eyes open again. There was no point in trying to sleep.

“Ah. Back with us again?” The gentle tone in the bard’s voice, as well as the slightly less agonizing tone of the light told Geralt it was probably night. He must have floated in the strange abyss between sleep and wakefulness for longer than he had thought. He nodded, though it made it head swim.

“Hmm. You didn’t seem to be resting very much. Perhaps I’ll get the healer and see if we can’t do something to help you sleep now that it’s been a while?”

For some reason, Geralt’s own pain didn’t seem to be terribly important. It was there, constant and pounding and occasionally very sharp, but he had experienced far worse. And there was something about Jaskier’s voice, an emotion the Witcher couldn’t quite place but that he knew was desperately important.

“You’re tired…” he managed to grind the words out, though his sentence ended in an embarrassingly breathy gasp. Jaskier laughed in a choking sort of way and stroked his forehead softly.

“Goodness. Of all the things you could be worrying about right now. Don’t worry, I’ll be quite alright. It’s just been…well, it’s been a difficult few weeks. And I suppose now that it finally seems to be over it’s just catching up with me how close we were to dying. Well, you in particular, I suppose.”

Geralt couldn’t suppress a coughing laugh at that, even though it made him wince and tighten his grip on the bedsheets.

“Mmm…’ndeed.”

“I suppose that’s the most coherent vocalization I’ll be getting out of you at the moment, hmm? You’re really sure you can’t try to sleep again? This all looks horribly uncomfortable. You’ve gone all flushed again.”

No one had ever mentioned to Geralt before that he got flushed when his head was hurting him. It was an odd thing to notice, not one that the average person would have paid any mind to. Although, Jaskier had proved again and again over the last several weeks that he was anything but average. Also a slightly strange revelation to come to, Geralt thought. It must be the concussion, making him consider things he would otherwise have kept hidden away.

“I’ll…stay awake. For a bit.” He wasn’t sure how understandable the words were; his mouth still felt full of cotton. But Jaskier seemed to get the gist of it, nodding and smoothing back some of Geralt’s sweaty hair.

“If you’re sure. I was just playing a bit, trying to get my fingers back into the rhythm of things again. You don’t mind if I practice some more, do you? If it hurts your head, just…glare at me. And I’ll go somewhere else.”

“Y’should sleep.”

“Certainly not while you’re awake and looking greyer than a storm cloud over the sea. Really, Geralt, I can barely even remember what it was like to see you when you didn’t look moments away from keeling over. So forgive me my concern.”

Chastised and too tired to debate the matter, Geralt shrugged in the general direction of Jaskier’s lute and let the bard figure the rest out himself. Smiling, Jaskier picked it up and settled back on the stool he must have taken to occupying while Geralt was asleep. He plucked a few strings, not in any particular order, just humming along to make sure the tuning was working. Frowning, he fiddled with a few of the knobs at the top, listening as the strings slid from note to note. Geralt understood none of what he was doing, but it was relaxing, to hear the pitch slide so easily.

“That bastard right fucked with her tuning,” Jaskier grumbled, seemingly more to himself than to Geralt, “This is why you never let soldiers handle something as delicate as a musical instrument. No respect for the arts, I tell you. And absolutely no basic understanding of the fact that you should _never_ mess about with another musician’s tuning.”

Geralt snorted softly, fondly. Jaskier was always so concerned about his lute, and the Witcher would be lying if he didn’t find it somewhat endearing. He had woken several times during the months they had travelled together to find the bard cleaning the instrument at odd times, or talking to it. It reminded him a little of how he felt about Roach. Except that was all perfectly logical because Roach was a living being with feelings and not…well, a block of wood and strings. He shook his head. His train of thought was far too disjointed to be entertaining such notions.

“Of course, you know better than to mess about with my lute, don’t you?” Jaskier continued on, heedless of Geralt’s lazy smile, “Sensible man, you are. Probably why you haven’t gotten yourself killed yet. Though it’s not for lack of trying.”

He looked up here and gave Geralt a pointed stare, but the Witcher was feeling too dizzy to meet his gaze properly and ended up just sighing and closing his eyes, hoping to rest them a bit. Jaskier gave another sad little laugh.

“I suppose you’ll be alright,” he was more whispering than speaking now, and Geralt had the distinct impression that he was intruding on something very private, “But…it’s been agony, you know? Watching you like this. It’s not something you ever deserved, and not something I would ever wish for you. You will get well soon, won’t you?”

“Hmm…trying.”

Jaskier started, as though he hadn’t expected Geralt to still be wakeful or fully present. A watery smile flitted across his lips, and for the first time the Witcher noticed that his sight had improved enough to make it out. More than a bit of relief flowed through him; a world made of nothing more than blurry patches of light and dark had been a difficult one to face.

“I know you are,” Jaskier stopped plucking at his lute strings for a moment, “Just…don’t go and get worse, is all. I feel as though every time you’re nearly back on your feet we end up back here again.”

Geralt had to chuckle a bit at that as well, even though it made his head feel as though it was swelling and about to burst. It was as though the bard thought he _chose_ to end up in these sorts of situations. Though, he supposed it was an occupational hazard. Not that he could simply choose another occupation.

“Hush, you’ll only bother your head. I’ll shut up now and stop making you laugh. Though it is good to see you smile, even when I know you won’t remember any of this come morning.”

“Who says…I won’t?” Geralt croaked, trying not to wince at how his voice was getting more raw and ragged sounding by the second.

“Your eyes,” Jaskier smiled gently, “They look tired. And the fact that you’re smiling at all. In the months I’ve known you, I’ve seen you smile more in these last few weeks than in the entire time beforehand. And I hardly doubt it’s a coincidence that you’ve been fevered or recovering from a knock to the head the whole time.”

A thought occurred to Geralt, about how perhaps it was simply the bard making him laugh more, but luckily he caught it before it slipped off his tongue. In all likelihood, Jaskier would turn tail and flee the moment he realized what Geralt was slowly and painfully unravelling for himself; that there was something more than begrudging understanding between himself and the bard. No use in exacerbating the process. After all, no one would want a Witcher as anything more than a travelling companion. Even Jaskier, ever tolerant as he was.

“Mmm…perhaps you’re right.” The words did nothing to convey the several different types of turmoil Geralt was currently experiencing, but Jaskier needed to know none of that. Best to keep it hidden until he was well enough to suppress it properly.

The bard frowned, though. Set his lute aside and took Geralt’s face between his hands, palms blessedly cool on the Witcher’s flushed cheeks. He tried not to close his eyes and sigh with pleasure. He was truly too far gone to have much control over himself at this point, and it was both alarming and embarrassing.

“Geralt, is there something you’re not telling me? You look so troubled all of a sudden, and the last thing your mind needs right now is troubles to occupy itself with while you’re trying to heal.”

“Nothing…to concern yourself with, bard.” Geralt was beginning to truly slur his words now, feeling sleepy and warm and altogether too weak to be keeping up this ruse. He could tell he was slipping, could tell Jaskier could see right through him. Some small part of him felt relief at the realization.

“I will concern myself with it,” Jaskier said stubbornly, still stroking Geralt’s cheek with his thumb, “But after you’ve had a proper sleep and something for your pain. Then we will discuss this properly, and in full. You don’t need to hide things, Geralt. Not while I’m here.”

Geralt blinked, eyelids drooping alarmingly now. He felt so tired, and had a bit of a shock when the mattress suddenly dipped next to him and he found the bard lying next to him, helping him lift his wretched head to rest against the man’s chest, over his beating heart.

“Go to sleep,” Jaskier whispered, sounding near sleep himself, “If you wake, just give me a poke and I’ll be here. You need not worry.”

Something about that last sentence left an impression on Geralt’s overwrought, overtired mind. Not needing to worry, after all the energy he had expended worrying about what Jaskier might think when he discovered Geralt was becoming fond of him. It was as though the bard knew what he was thinking. Perhaps Jaskier could read minds. Geralt resolved to ask him about it when he awoke.

* * *

Jaskier knew exactly what was wrong. Not only that, but he understood exactly why it was a problem, and that only made it all the more frustrating. Frustrating and heartbreaking, because if Geralt hadn’t been so ill over the last week, he would have remembered their conversation in the carriage, where Jaskier had told him how much he cared for the Witcher. As things stood, it seemed that the bard’s words had been lost in whatever feverish haze had been occupying Geralt’s mind at the time. Not that Jaskier could fault him for it. But now they would need to have this whole conversation again, when the Witcher was well enough to remember and participate in it.

Beyond that, the simple fact that anything was wrong bothered Jaskier. It was truly a cruel world to live in, to believe that to show any sign of caring for another would lead that person to leave you. The bard had known that people were cold towards Witchers, but it hurt him to think that Geralt had an idea in his mind where he walked his path alone, always, even when he wished he did not have to. He wondered if all Witchers were so burdened, to be solitary but for one another. Perhaps, someday, he would have a chance to ask them. Though that was a wishful and faraway thought indeed.

So bothered was he that he stayed awake long after Geralt’s pain-stuttering breaths elongated into those of much-needed sleep. The bard knew that part of his own worry was due to the fact that he was drawn to the quick, in need of rest and recovery as much as the Witcher. His heartbeat was erratic, picking up every time he heard a creak or groan in the hallway. And his mouth was bruised and bloody still. Even his hands, steady to the last, were trembling like frail leaves in an autumn wind.

There must have been a while when he drifted on the brink of unconsciousness. Every noise became inexplicably loud, and he began to feel a bit like he was floating away on each beat of his overzealous heart. Geralt’s head was heavy on his shoulder, and it made him feel warm and comfortable. But, it was not truly sleep, and when, after what must have been many hours, sunlight began to stream between the gossamer curtains, Jaskier felt no more rested than if he had spent the night up and pacing the length of the small room.

It was pointless to lie abed, though. It only made Jaskier’s thoughts and his heart race more, perfectly normal assumptions flowering and developing into fears and worries when he had nothing better with which to occupy his mind. Carefully, the bard dislodged Geralt’s head from the crook of his shoulder, mindful of the bandages occupying an ugly, triangular cut in the back where it had been smashed into the table. With some fondness, he also removed the Witcher’s limp arm from where it had been thrown over his torso somewhere in the night. Geralt looked tired and pale, deep circles etched into his porcelain skin. He didn’t so much as stir when the bard shifted him, which was evidence in and of itself that his body needed the rest. He was normally a notoriously light sleeper.

“I’m just going to play and write a bit,” Jaskier whispered, “Poke me if I’m disturbing your rest.”

He knew Geralt couldn’t hear him, but on the off chance that the Witcher was floating somewhere near consciousness, he hoped a familiar voice would at least be grounding against the headache. Softly, he extracted his lute from its velvet-lined case and played a few detached chords. His mind had been full of words since their moonlit ride, but for some reason he couldn’t place them or write them out in a way that made sense. There was so much fear and emotion surrounding that trip, and every time Jaskier tried to recall it in the detail he needed to create poetry, his heart would race, and his throat would begin working in overtime to keep from vomiting. It was humiliating and frustrating, and felt like a block he would never be able to get past. Not without confronting it, at least.

So, he got out his notebook. The last few pages were full of disjointed notes as opposed to his usual orderly, poetic script. They flew about the page and seemed in as much disarray as the thoughts and fears that swirled through the bard’s head. Sighing tiredly, he set his quill to the paper, and closed his eyes, simply letting his hand lead him wherever it wanted to go. Sometimes, he found it easier to let his body take the lead when his mind was too far away to guide him.

Jaskier entered a sort of daze for some time after that. It was almost meditative, if he could use such a word to describe the slow ordering out of his mind. He remembered many things, both of their time with Corvin and shortly thereafter, the fond memories intermingled with the traumatic. The whole time, his hand stroked across the parchment of his leather-bound notebook, the familiar scratching sensation a comfort amidst all the confrontation of memories he was undergoing.

When he finally blinked his eyes open, afternoon light was shining through the windows, the drapes of which Jaskier had forgotten to open, though he supposed it would be a mercy on Geralt’s head when he woke from his sleep. But something else caught his attention. He had glanced down at his notebook, more because he knew his hand would be covered with ink from rubbing the page than anything else. He had little to no interest in seeing the confused drivel he must have written out. But there were no words on the page. Instead, beneath his inky hands, was a sketch.

Jaskier had done some art as a boy, and had always loved drawing charcoal portraits of his sisters. He had been quite good. But it was something his father had beaten out of him, back when Jaskier was still concerned about becoming the next viscount. He had not put pen to paper to do anything other than write in years, and his cheeks flushed at what he had come up with.

The drawing was undoubtedly Geralt, his hair slightly wavier than it looked most of the time, pulled back as it usually was. There was a faint shadow of a beard on his chin, and even the small detail of the little scar next to his right eye. But his eyes were by far the most electrifying part of the whole thing. Jaskier had always struggled to draw communicative eyes, but Geralt’s were intense. They captured the determined, forward look he always took on before a difficult hunt or a meeting with an uncooperative alderman. With his brows drawn together a little, the sketch was disturbingly realistic. And, Jaskier thought, almost a little erotic. The whole thing was very intense, and made him feel flushed all over. He set it to the side, giving a little shiver and stretching his back out like a cat, determined to forget it.

When he looked up, though, he saw Geralt blinking tiredly, swimming his way up from the murky pool of sleep. Hastily, Jaskier stuffed the page back in his notebook. Geralt would never let him live it down if he saw such a sketch of himself. If anything, the Witcher would be downright offended.

All offensive artwork carefully hidden away, Jaskier sat back down on the edge of the bed and gave Geralt a little smile as the Witcher reached up and rubbed his forehead, frowning and trying very hard to suppress a yawn.

“Welcome back,” Jaskier said quietly, relieved when Geralt didn’t seem to find his voice too loud, “You’ve slept a good while. How are you feeling?”

“Better,” Geralt nodded gingerly, seemingly testing his limits, “I’m not tired anymore. Headache’s a bit better.”

Supposing that was as good an answer as he was going to get at the moment, Jaskier slipped some pillows behind the Witcher as he pushed himself upright, blinking a bit as he did so. He stretched then, popping his shoulders a bit and rolling his neck, even though it looked very sore.

“Did you rest, bard?”

“A bit. I feel…on edge.”

“You were nearly murdered in your sleep.”

Jaskier shuddered at the thought. If Geralt weren’t so eternally vigilant, it was very likely he wouldn’t be alive right now. And the Witcher had paid dearly indeed for his success in eliminating Corvin.

“I suppose I should thank you, now that you’re with me a bit more. I would never have survived that without you. Not just yesterday…none of it. I would have died in Corvin’s dungeons if you hadn’t found a way to get us out.”

“Hmm. Wasn’t me. That key came to us some other way. Though I think I know how.” The Witcher’s face took on a pensive look, brows furrowed together much like Jaskier’s drawing. The bard flushed and quickly looked away.

“I was in too much of a state to have had the first idea what to do with it. It was your ingenuity, even half dead, that got us out of those walls. But what do you mean, you think you know how we got the key?”

“Do you really wonder who our benefactor might have been, after all that’s happened? Eist has many reasons to keep us alive, strange though it may seem to you. Men such as him don’t fuck about with destiny.”

Jaskier was surprised he hadn’t figured it out sooner. Of course it was Eist, who had already known that something was wrong at Errowhal. He had probably been keeping tabs, casually, on Geralt ever since the Witcher had acquired his grandchild through the law of surprise. Upon receiving word that he had been captured, it would have been a simple thing for the Jarl to send a man to infiltrate Corvin’s ranks and make sure they made it to safety. If not for the safety of the future child surprise, then simply in the lord’s selfish interests; he had said himself he had a vested interest in removing the false lord from Errowhal, and he never would have been able to lead a successful campaign on the fortress without someone with intricate knowledge of its inner workings. That, and the ability to command the respect of the Jarl’s proud Skelligan troops, which was no small feat.

“You’re probably right. Goddess, Geralt, I’ve no idea where you managed to fit in the time to figure all that out, around the fevers and the wounds.”

“Hmm. Hard to get to sleep with a concussion this bad.”

Geralt did look very pale, and Jaskier put a concerned hand to his brow, though he had no idea why he might think to check the Witcher for a fever. Geralt raised an eyebrow, and the bard quickly retracted his hand.

“Are you feeling up to having something to eat? I’m starved, and I think we need to talk. My mother always said a conversation was better over a shared meal.”

“Did she, now?”

Not quite sure what to make of that little comment, Jaskier got awkwardly to his feet and fiddled his hands in his lap for a moment. He had been all confidence about this conversation when Geralt was half out of his mind and exhausted, but now that the moment had actually come, his stomach was turning about in his chest like a sea snake.

“I’ll…go fetch us something to eat. Shall I open the curtains before I go?”

Geralt just grunted and motioned at his head, which Jaskier took as a negative response. He looked so tired in the darkness of the room, tired and pale and thinner than the bard had seen him before. Though, he supposed an extended illness would have that effect on anyone, even a Witcher. And Geralt had barely been able to stomach food before Corvin had attacked them. Still, he couldn’t help but feel worried. The Witcher would be in no state to take on contracts for quite some time, if his current physical state was anything to go by.

“Jaskier?”

The bard started and realized he had been staring rather intensely at the wall. He shook himself.

“Sorry…lost in my thoughts. I’ll be back in a moment!”

To say he fled would be an understatement. Geralt was not prone to flights of fancy, and Jaskier doubted the Witcher was impressed with his own. Ah, well. Perhaps he was too tired and in too much pain to pass judgement on it at the moment. He certainly looked well and truly dishevelled.

It was nigh on twenty minutes before Jaskier returned with food, mostly because he had encountered Eist in the hall, who had wanted to know how they were doing and if they needed anything else. The Jarl seemed both enraged and humiliated that such an attack had occurred within his own home, and seemed to be willing to go to quite extravagant stretches to make sure the honour of his estate was restored. It was the closest Jaskier had ever seen such a powerful man to being distraught, though in Eist it manifested as forceful rage and determination. After reassuring him that they were more than well, he hurried back upstairs and slipped into the room silently, smiling to see that Geralt appeared to have fallen back into a doze.

As soon as Jaskier set down the tray, though, the Witcher propped himself up on an elbow, wincing as he pushed himself back up to sitting.

“Heavens, no need to trouble yourself on my account,” Jaskier admonished, trying to ignore the way his heart was thundering in his chest and the way Geralt’s shirt had come unlaced at the top, “If you’re resting, this can wait. It’s nothing dire, just sandwiches and some broth.”

“I wasn’t asleep,” the Witcher said in a groggy voice that suggested he had been dozing at the very least, “Eyes are sore is all.”

“Indeed. Would you like something, or shall I leave you to rest?”

Geralt shrugged and picked up a sandwich off the plate, turning it over and over between his hands. He seemed very distracted, and the fine white bread was quickly becoming rather squished. Jaskier took one of his own and watched with a sort of fascinated horror as Geralt picked at the bread, turning a bit pale when he inspected the meat and lettuce within. Jaskier’s mother would have had a fit to see food butchered in such a way. But, the bard supposed, Geralt had not grown up around high society ladies and their delicate finger sandwiches. The Witcher could count himself lucky. Jaskier was unable to eat with anything other than the most refined and courtly of manners, even when they were cooking over a fire on the side of the road. It was an abominable curse, he thought.

They stayed for a while in silence, though Jaskier felt as though the tension could be cut with a knife. Perhaps Geralt did not feel the same. The man seemed completely immune to understanding of tension and other normal human emotions.

“I ran into Eist in the hall,” Jaskier said eventually, mostly just to break the ice that he could feel slowly creeping up his spine, “He gave me some herbs in case you were in pain; the healer forgot to leave them here yesterday. I’m…not sure how they’ll work for you, the dosages are all for us unmutated folk, but if your eyes are sore perhaps it’s worth a try?”

Geralt stuffed the rest of his sandwich into his mouth in a most ungentlemanly way and held out a hand, into which Jaskier placed the packet of herbs. The Witcher had to hold them far closer to his face than usual; his eyesight must have been suffering still. After a few moments of sifting through the leaves and biting at his bottom lip with a look of deep concentration, Geralt sorted them into separate groups and handed the packet back over.

“Should work better like that. But they’re all sedatives.”

‘…And?” Jaskier hated himself for trying to avoid the conversation he knew they needed to have, but every inch of him was trembling and pounding and he was beginning to wonder if his emotions were stable enough to confront any of this.

“I’ve slept for long enough,” Geralt looked desperately tired and flushed, tense lines of pain beginning to draw up on his forehead, “And we need to talk.”

Ah. So there it was, then. Jaskier wondered if now was truly the time, with Geralt looking like he was moments away from keeling over again and himself feeling so out of sorts. But they couldn’t put it off any longer. If they did, Jaskier feared he would lose the courage to say what needed to be said.

Geralt turned to the side, leaning awkwardly against the headboard for a moment as vertigo took him. Then, he motioned at Jaskier’s notebook, which was sitting propped against the bedside table. He still looked terribly tired,

“That fell open when you went downstairs. Think I’m owed an explanation.”

Geralt didn’t need to say any more. Jaskier remembered the drawing, and his heart sank down into his boots, hopes dashed and oozing out of him across Eist’s beautiful, plush carpet.


	12. A Fire Built

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt and Jaskier have a long-overdue conversation. Plans are made moving forward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is now the longest one I have on here! And most of its chapters are purely self-indulgent whump. Oh well. Such is life. There'll be a short-ish epilogue posted next week, and then I'm thinking of maybe hopping on the Febuwhump train and filling a couple of those prompts, though they won't be in order or posted on the right days now that I'm back in uni again. Ah well. Hope you guys enjoy this one! I feel like a lot happens in a small time frame, but the characterization was definitely more on point here. We're learning, if rather slowly ☺️

As soon as the words left Geralt’s mouth, he knew they were too harsh. The crestfallen look on Jaskier’s face told him everything he needed to know, and he briefly wondered when he had gotten so good at reading the bard’s facial expressions. He wasn’t angry, not truly. More surprised. Perhaps even a little flattered. He certainly didn’t see himself the way Jaskier had drawn him, all hard lines and a penetrating gaze. There was no chance in Hell he actually looked like that; the scars and raspy voice and permanent exhaustion and hunger would have beaten out of him any attractive features he might have once possessed. But this still begged the question of why the bard would draw him in such a way. So inaccurately, and yet in a way that seemed almost fond. It was strange and uncharted territory for Geralt. Perhaps he had indeed spoken too rashly, too soon, too harshly, as was always his wont and downfall.

“Listen,” Jaskier stuttered, his voice smaller than Geralt had heard since their conversation inside Corvin’s keep, “It’s not what you think. It was an accident; I had meant to write, and somehow my hand ended up drawing instead, and I didn’t see it until afterwards. I’m truly sorry…you were never supposed to see it. I – I can go, if that would make you feel better. I know it must have been unexpected and…unwelcome.”

Geralt worked his jaw through the whole speech, feeling simultaneously so frustrated it was all he could do not to throttle the bard and very badly for having put him in such a situation in the first place. His hands fisted in the sheets, and if his head hadn’t been pounding too miserably before, it definitely was now. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, just to block out the light and get a second’s respite from the never-ending light.

“It’s fine,” he grunted out, feeling awkward and unsure of his words; this was never a situation he had prepared himself to encounter, “It was…unexpected. But fine. I don’t care about it, and you don’t need to make it into a whole song and dance.”

If it was possible for the bard to look more hurt, he did. In fact, his eyes squeezed tightly shut in a mirror of Geralt’s own position moments before, and he dropped his head into his hands. Geralt cursed, cursed his aching head and his exhausted body for making him say the worst things at the worst possible time. This whole situation was stupid, and frustrating, but he had dug himself into this mire and now he would need to find a way to dig himself out.

“Listen, bard,” Geralt reached over and took his hand, peeling it away from his face probably a little more roughly than was strictly necessary, but he was feeling very tired and his heart was pounding for some unknown reason, “You’ve not offended me. Quite…quite the opposite, in fact. It was surprising. But not badly. I only feel…that you’ve portrayed me inaccurately. Not the first time, either.”

Jaskier looked up and wiped his eyes with his hand that was still free. Geralt quickly loosened his grip on the other one; he had been clenching it rather tightly without meaning to. The bard seemed surprised, a little caught off guard. This was probably the most he had ever talked around the other man, he realized. Sighing, he settled back against the cushions, and almost subconsciously moved over, gesturing for Jaskier to join him on the bed. The bard was warm, and the room was very cold. Or perhaps it was still his body getting over the shock of the last few days. In either case, Jaskier sat gingerly at his side, as though he was afraid he was going to be burned if he came too close.

“The ballads you write,” Geralt forged on, feeling about as articulate as an ox, “Are all heroism and heartbreak, destiny and all that other bullshit. But you’ve travelled with me now, and you’ve seen that’s not the life I lead. Most of the time, I get by on a combination of skill and luck and enhanced senses. I’m…I know I’m not an ideal travel companion, especially for someone of your birth. I know people see me as uncivilized and more beast than man and that they aren’t entirely wrong, and that my scars and eyes and hair are frightening and unnatural. I know it frustrates you when I don’t speak for days on end, and when I come back from a hunt and don’t tell you what happened. I just…don’t understand…why you keep on portraying me as something I’m not. As someone who makes the right choices and helps people. It feels…deceitful. I feel as though somehow I’ve deceived you or led you to believe I’m someone I’m not.”

When he was finished, Geralt looked down at his hands, picked at the inside of his thumb. He was truly shaking now, though he wasn’t sure if it was from cold or nerves. It was so welcome when Jaskier wrapped an arm around him that at first, he didn’t realize what was happening, at which point he was too firmly enveloped to pull away.

“Oh, Geralt,” Jaskier looked so incredibly relieved, and there was a little tear trickling down his cheek, at odds with the smile on his face, “You complete and utter fool. Do you truly believe yourself so hideous and undesirable?”

Geralt bit his lip, suddenly feeling something that was almost akin to embarrassment. Not a feeling he got very often, and a distinctly unpleasant one at that. He nodded, suddenly finding that his tongue no longer possessed the ability to form words. His whole body tingled a bit, prickling with a rush of something he couldn’t identify and had never felt before.

A hand reached up gently and brought his chin to face Jaskier. He looked away for a moment before they made eye contact, and the bard smiled softly, sadly. Geralt almost wanted to brush that one damn stubborn tear out of his long eyelashes.

“That drawing was a completely honest depiction of how I see you. A little exposing, perhaps, but not a lie. Not a crock of fanciful words or something created to woo an eager audience. Just me, observing you, as I see you before me every day. And…as much as perhaps my ballads are full of fanciful depictions and…ah…mild inaccuracies, they aren’t lies, Geralt. You do good for the people of this Continent. You protect their crops and their children and see that they aren’t gutted in their beds by some creature too horrible to describe. You don’t kill creatures that have done no harm, and I know you take no pleasure in a hunt where you have to kill something that’s sentient. You…you’re good, Geralt. To everyone you encounter. You try to do right by us all, often at great expense to yourself.”

Geralt was well and truly flushed now, and it wasn’t just because of the headache pounding ever more forcefully behind his temples. He twisted his hands awkwardly in his lap, until Jaskier took them in his own. The bard’s hands were also terribly warm, and Geralt found himself unwittingly enveloped, Jaskier’s arms wrapped around his shoulders and clasping his shaky hands. His shivering didn’t stop. It was still so damn cold, as though it was coming from somewhere within him. His stomach twisted and cramped with nausea.

“I suppose, what I’m trying to say if I’d stop simply spouting exposition for the sake of it,” Jaskier said, more softly now that Geralt was so close to him, “Is that you aren’t hideous and horrible. Most people, good people, don’t see you as a monster, and neither do I. In fact, if you should be amenable…I should very much like…to see you as something more. Than just a travelling companion, that is. I have grown very fond of you, Geralt. And I should very much like to show you that. I should very much like to show you…well, how much I love you. For what it’s worth.”

It seemed then that Jaskier stopped breathing. Geralt looked up quite abruptly, feeling alarmed, wondering if perhaps the bard had worked himself into such a state over the whole situation that he was panicking. He moved his head too quickly, and clenched his eyes shut, determined not to make a complete mess of what he knew was a very important moment. The surging pain receded, and once he had determined that the bard was still breathing, albeit shallowly and very quickly, he squeezed Jaskier’s hand awkwardly.

“This life…it isn’t an easy one,” he finally managed to get out, “But you’ve seen that already, and you’re an adult capable of making his own decisions. I – well, I would be very…amenable. If you’re sure.”

It was as though a cloud that Geralt hadn’t even known was hanging over the bard suddenly cleared and allowed the sun to shine brilliantly through. His entire countenance brightened miraculously, eyes shining, face suddenly clearing and the worry lines set into it disappearing as though they had never been there. Jaskier squeezed his hand back, ever so gently, and bit his lip very forcefully, as though he were about to shout and trying very hard not to. A smile spread across his cheeks, carving deep lines into his cheeks and about his eyes. It made him look more youthful, somehow.

“Geralt, I am so very sure.”

Feeling very drained all of a sudden, and still incredibly awkward and confused about how he and Jaskier planned on proceeding into such uncharted territory, the Witcher looked up and caught the bard’s eye.

“You don’t mind if I sleep like this? The room is…ah…cold.”

In response, Jaskier drew him in tighter, encouraged him to lay his aching head on the bard’s chest. Geralt could hear his human heart thudding away in his chest, thrumming even faster than its normal resting rate. It was relaxing and grounding; his balance still hadn’t returned and he was feeling very off-kilter and nauseous. Whatever adrenaline had kept him going through the conversation was fleeing quickly.

Eventually, Jaskier began rubbing his back and up his neck, slowly at first and then with more force when Geralt pressed into him. The Witcher’s muscles were sore and odd feeling, and it felt good to have the tension pushed out of them. He dozed for a bit, not really awake but still aware of the world around him. Jaskier was very warm, and his shivering had all but stopped, thanks to that and the quilt that appeared to have been miraculously pulled over his shoulder s while he drifted. There was a quiet humming, a vibration in the bard’s chest that Geralt could feel just as well as he could hear. It buzzed through him, and it seemed as though even his medallion picked up on it slightly, resonating minutely against Geralt’s still-bruised chest. Not for the first time, it occurred to the Witcher that Jaskier might have some sort of reservoir of chaos within him.

It was completely without realizing it that Geralt blinked his eyes shut and began to sleep, truly. For the first time since they had escaped from Errowhal, it was not a sleep plagued with nightmares, but instead deep and dark and completely peaceful. It gave his aching head and leg some respite, and when he awoke with a short intake of breath and a stuttering yawn, he felt only a little dizzy and his headache was much improved. There was still a sense of vertigo, though, and a blasted confusion as to where he was and what had happened. These were always the last symptoms of a concussion to give up their hold, and Geralt found them exceptionally frustrating.

“Morning,” a sleepy voice tinged with the joyful upturning of a smile greeted him, and Geralt rolled about to see Jaskier blinking sleep out of his eyes, rubbing at them with the backs of his knuckles in an unbearably attractive manner, “Managed to finally get some rest?”

The Witcher blinked, suddenly feeling very disoriented. He had only fallen asleep for a few moments, and yet it was daytime now, sun streaming in and making his still-sore eyes feel like over-poached eggs.

“How long was I asleep?” He asked groggily, trying to make sense of how so much time had passed.

“The whole night. You were completely exhausted, didn’t even wake when I finally had to get up and move you, which was most uncharacteristic and sent me into a bit of a panic. I had to keep on checking that you were breathing.”

Ah. He must have fallen into some sort of healing sleep, which he supposed was what his body needed after so many days of blatant abuse with almost no time or chance to rest outside of feverish delirium. Healing sleep always left Geralt feeling terribly groggy though, as though his consciousness was floating somewhere far above his head. He lay back down with a tired sigh that verged on a groan and let Jaskier fiddle with the bandages wrapped around his forehead.

“Goddess, Geralt, you’re still bleeding through these. Shouldn’t they have clotted by now?”

“You know how much head wounds bleed. Stop…fussing.”

“I’ll fuss as much as I like,” Jaskier said gently, a note of caution in his voice as he wrapped fresh bandages over the wound, “I’m allowed to now. Unless you’d still prefer I left you to sort yourself out on your own.”

Not particularly in the mood to argue and rather enjoying the feeling of Jaskier’s energetic fingers on his forehead, Geralt leaned back and let him check on his knee and ankle, and poke at the bruises that had gone from a stormy black to sickly green about his ribs.

“This all looks like it hurts terribly. I have no idea how you managed to lead any sort of campaign. I’m not sure you would have been able to sit on Roach to get there, let alone fight.”

“It’s better than it looks,” Geralt cracked an eye and poked at the bruises a bit, wincing when their ache lanced through his flesh despite days of healing, “Being ill and having to fight Corvin are slowing my healing.”

“And yet, you would have gone anyways.”

“Hmm.”

Jaskier rested his hand on Geralt’s bad knee then, looking with concern at the still-swollen cut, red and irritated but healing. The whole limb was bruised in a sort of pattern, radiating outwards from where the bolt had lodged in his flesh. If it hadn’t hurt so much, Geralt would have been almost tempted to say it was beautiful, the colours radiating outwards like a mandala he had once seen painted on the walls of a long-abandoned temple.

“Don’t do that sort of thing again, alright? All the self-sacrificing bullshit. You nearly killed me with worry, and it makes me feel as though you don’t value your own life. Which, I must say, is not a comforting thought considering I have to see you off as you go hunt deadly, venomous creatures on almost a weekly basis.”

Geralt was far too tired and still feeling a bit too dazed to have this conversation at the moment. He nodded, humming his agreement, though there was a voice inside him that reminded him that, up until yesterday evening, he had had no reason to value his own life. His brothers knew he was bound to die at some point, better on the path than in Kaer Morhen. It was a bit alarming to realize that Jaskier would mourn him if he went and got himself killed now.

“Are you feeling alright? You’ve gone all dazed again.”

“Mhmm. Should get up. If I stay in a bed for much longer my skin is going to fuse to the sheets.”

Jaskier winced at the gruesome imagery.

“Only if you’re quite sure. I don’t want you aggravating those wounds prematurely, especially if your concussion is making it hard for you to balance. And don’t pretend you’re not dizzy; I’ve watched you swaying back and forth when you think I won’t notice.”

Giving Jaskier a look, Geralt swung his legs over the side of the bed, wincing and suppressing a groan as his bad knee bent. He wrapped his hands around it for a moment, more for support than to stop the pain, and then stood, one arm braced against the headboard.

All the blood drained from his head as though gravity had suddenly doubled in force. It felt forcefully pressed towards his feet, and the corresponding wave of vertigo was so overwhelming that Geralt was completely unsure which way was up. He tipped forwards, falling towards some unknown end, jolting abruptly just as he was sure he was about to make himself unfortunately acquainted with the floor. There was a grunt of effort, and he found himself being lowered down a bit more gently, though there were still rough boards beneath his hands. Someone was talking, but it was all a bit murky at first, and it took him a moment to reorient himself and focus on the sound over the pounding in his ears.

“…Said only if you were sure! I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone less sure about anything in my entire life. Gods, Geralt, you could have split your head open and _died_ if I hadn’t been here. All for your idiotic stubbornness. And all this right after I’ve just told you how very much I care for you. Have you no respect for my feelings, if not for your own?”

Geralt blinked. The world righted itself around him, and he found himself staring into Jaskier’s eyes, which were liquid and bright and fearful. His brows were drawn together with concern, and one of his hands was brushing worriedly against Geralt’s scalp, over and over again, as though he couldn’t stop himself.

“I’m fine,” the Witcher mumbled, pushing himself up and hanging his head for a moment to let it clear a bit, “Just vertigo from the concussion. I need to walk if I want to ever get my balance back.”

Jaskier braced Geralt’s elbow as he pushed himself tiredly all the way back onto his feet. Once he was there, he swayed for a moment as the room seemed to swirl kaleidoscopically.

“Alright?”

“Mhmm.”

They limped a few steps over to a luxurious-looking red sofa by the enormous hearth. This room was even nicer than the last, now that Geralt had the chance to get a proper look at it. Well-oiled hardwood floors, a fireplace that was nearly two storeys tall and inlaid with stones

and mounted with hunting trophies. He wondered if they had not been moved into some of Eist’s personal chambers as a way to compensate them for what had happened. As he eased himself down onto the sofa with the bard at his side, Geralt had to admit it was a good change to be comfortable and well looked after. He winced at the thought of recovering from such extensive wounds and illness on the road somewhere, even with Jaskier at his side. He wondered if they would have survived at all, if they had been alone in the wilds.

“An Oren for your thoughts?” Jaskier was watching him curiously.

“Hmm. Just wondering what it would have been like if Eist hadn’t taken us into his home.”

“A dark thought indeed. I hate to imagine weathering that awful storm we had a few nights ago, with you in the condition you’re in. We would have been lucky to survive the night, if we weren’t simply drowned in the downpour.”

“You’re far too dramatic,” Geralt said, mildly amused and feeling a bit better now that he was sitting and his head was no longer spinning like a top, “We’d have lived. I’ve survived far worse.”

“Ah, my dear, what are the liberal arts if not an outlet for those with a penchant for the dramatic? And just because you’ve survived worse doesn’t mean you can continue in that way. If you don’t take care of yourself, something’s bound to do you in someday.”

“Something’s bound to do me in someday anyways.”

Jaskier gave him a light slap on the shoulder, and they lapsed into a companionable silence, the bard getting up once or twice to stoke the fire. There must have been another storm outside; Geralt could hear the rain tapping ever so gently against the glass windowpanes across the room. He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt so relaxed, so at peace despite the aching pain in his body, the never-ending bruise that seemed to stretch the length of him. Leaning back, he stretched an arm across the sofa and tensed it up, stretching like a cat. Jaskier caught his hand lazily, interlacing their fingers as Geralt relaxed again.

“You look like you could do with a nap. Come here, and I’ll rub your shoulders for you. You must be all out of sorts after so many days in bed.”

How odd it was, the way Jaskier simply adapted to this new…thing between them as though he had been made for it. Or waiting for it for some time, imagining how it would be. That seemed much more possible, and for some reason it made Geralt feel warm inside. He leaned back, balance betraying him once again as he wobbled and Jaskier eased him the rest of the way down, laying his tired head between the bard’s legs. Drowsy and warm and comfortable, Geralt thought perhaps he could risk a question. If the bard asked him about it later, he could blame it on the lingering confusion from the concussion.

“Jaskier,” he tried to conjure up the words to ask what he needed, came up with nothing, and awkwardly tried to parse them together as he spoke instead, “Why…do you do these things for me? Not that it isn’t good, just…”

“You don’t do them for me?”

“Mhmm.” Geralt felt a little guilty admitting it, but it was true. He couldn’t imagine offering to rub the bard’s shoulders while he took a nap. The idea was preposterous.

“Perhaps it’s because you know it’s not what matters to me, in this moment. You see, I know you’re sore right now, despite the fact that you’re more stubborn than an ox when it comes to admitting it. You look all sorts of dizzy and tired, and I know you’ve had a very rough go of it, so I want to make you more comfortable. And…well…you letting me do this for you makes me feel just as good as I hope I’m making you feel.”

Geralt mulled over this for a moment. His relationships, particularly ones of a romantic or affectionate nature, were always based on reciprocity, or inequality in the fact that he was supposed to provide more, since whoever he was with was putting themselves on the line to spend time with a mutant bastard, an unnatural, an outcast. The thought that it might actually bring Jaskier _pleasure_ to simply sit there and rub the knots out of his sore shoulders was very strange, though not entirely unwelcome.

He must have been frowning fiercely, because Jaskier stopped his work on his back and shoulders and placed a worried hand on his forehead, as though he was checking for a fever. Geralt cracked an eye.

“I’m fine, bard. It’s just…odd.”

“Hmm. Though it saddens me to think of it, I can understand how it might be. But you needn’t worry about taking advantage of me, dearest. I’m more than capable of saying when I want something, and I’m not in the habit of doing things I don’t want to do. And I suppose, over time, you’ll learn better what pleases me, just as I will for you. Though I must admit you’re rather an open book, stretching out like a cat the moment I start working your sore muscles.”

Geralt quelled another shivering little stretch that had been welling up in his shoulders, and settled more comfortably. Now that he had confirmed that he wasn’t taking advantage, or forcing Jaskier into a position he wasn’t comfortable with, he was beginning to feel very drowsy. Clearly, he was nowhere near as recovered as he would like to be; his head was pounding fiercely and he was dizzy and tired. At some point, Jaskier must have slid a pillow under his sore knee, because it was comfortably propped up now, the healing cut no longer stretching and pulling painfully. Geralt sighed and turned his head into the crushed velvet of the sofa, biting his lips when Jaskier began murmuring softly to him, some sort of rhythmic verse, probably a new composition. He drifted for a while, waiting for the pain in his head to die down somewhat, before he eventually fell properly asleep.

* * *

It was some great blessing, Jaskier thought, to be able to identify the exact moment that Geralt slipped from consciousness into sleep. Perhaps he had simply spent too many nights listening to the other man breathe when he couldn’t seem to find his own rest. Somewhere along the way, he must have become familiar with the way the Witcher’s breaths evened out when he finally allowed himself to sleep. It left Jaskier feeling more than a little honoured to have been trusted, from the very beginning, with what he now recognized was an extremely vulnerable, delicate thing. He let a small, fond smile grace his lips before shaking it off as his penchant for useless, sappy romance. Geralt surely had no interest in such things. And Jaskier had no intention of inflicting them upon him. Just because Geralt had accepted his proposition didn’t mean he needed to experience the show in twelve acts that was normally the bard’s approach to wooing. Jaskier knew it would not be appreciated, and was more than willing to try something new. It felt good, to have a fresh start.

Good as it might be, though, the bard was worried for Geralt. The man was as pale as a sheet, and he was spending more time asleep than awake since the whole incident with Corvin. As much as this was probably normal for someone recovering from serious injuries and a bad concussion to top it all off, Jaskier hated to see Geralt suffer. He touched the bandages surrounding the Witcher’s head briefly, sympathetically, in a way he never would have had Geralt been awake.

“Oh, love,” he murmured, trying out the nickname for size and finding it was not lacking, “I’m so sorry to see you this way. You look properly ill…I wish there was something I could do to make it better.”

As soon as he spoke, Jaskier wished he hadn’t. Geralt mustn’t have been as deeply asleep as he had seemed, because he came to, frowning. One of his hands came up and he pressed the heel of it against his forehead, wincing as though he were in a great deal of pain.

“Shh,” Jaskier whispered, moving his hands carefully away, “Go back to sleep. I’m just being ridiculous, talking to myself. No reason to wake up quite yet.”

To his chagrin, Geralt’s hazy-looking amber eyes peeled themselves open all the same, and he yawned tiredly, catching the bard’s own eyes in his disoriented gaze.

“Jask…what…” He trailed off before he could pursue the line of questioning any further, though, throat working for an instant before he leaned over and retched. Jaskier barely had time to snatch up a metal bow, used for storing kindling, before he vomited up what meagre food he had managed to get down the day before. Gently, the bard rubbed his back until he was done, at which point he leaned back, wiping his mouth as though nothing had happened. Leave it to him to be completely nonchalant about something so very concerning, Jaskier thought, swallowing back his own fears.

“What happened?” Geralt’s voice was ragged and hoarse, and Jaskier winced in sympathy to hear it, “Did you need me?”

“Oh, dearest,” Jaskier was enjoying finally being able to use terms of endearment far too much, though this one came with a sad little smile when he observed how ill Geralt looked, “I didn’t need anything. I was just being stupid, talking too much. I must have woken you. I’m terribly sorry.”

“Hmm…s’fine. Mustn’t have been sleeping very deeply anyways; if I needed to heal I wouldn’t have woken over something so trivial.”

“But…you’ve just been ill…and you look so pale. You must need to rest and heal a while yet.”

“Just a concussion,” Geralt’s voice was gaining back confidence with each word he spoke, sounding less and less groggy, which was a small mercy, “Would be more surprised if I wasn’t ill. Leave it, Jaskier. I’ll be fine.”

The Witcher didn’t make any preparations to move from his position in Jaskier’s lap, though, and eventually the bard had to dislodge him to dispose of the contents of the bowl. He frowned a little, and the bard almost hoped it was because he missed him. Or at least his warmth. It appeared the fire had gone out some time ago, and they no longer had any kindling with which to build it up again.

“Stay here and get some rest. I’m going to go get some more wood and paper for the fire. It’s bastard cold in here, and there’s still a storm outside. The last thing we need right now is for you to take a chill on top of everything else.”

“Witchers don’t get sick.”

“In the same way that they recover in mere days from any injury, even a life-threatening one? Because I think we both know now that you were bullshitting me when you said that.”

“Hmm. The cold doesn’t cause illness, in any case.”

“My great aunt Agatha would beg to differ.”

Geralt closed his eyes and reached up to rub his forehead, wincing in a way that pulled at Jaskier’s heartstrings but also seemed to be too perfectly timed to be anything but a tad dramatic.

“Don’t you do that,” he chided, with no real malice, “You know I’ll melt and come running to your side with a cold cloth for your aching brown and all that nonsense.”

“Mmm. Really do have a headache, though.”

“I know. Just give me a moment, and I’ll come back and try to make it a bit better, yes? Even if it involves cold compresses on your aching brow.”

Geralt snorted a little, a ghost of a smile turning up his fine lips. Resisting the urge to ruffle his hair affectionately, Jaskier turned to the door.

“You will be alright, won’t you? You don’t need anything before I leave you? A glass of water, perhaps?”

“Stop fussing and go. Before I die of old age waiting for you to return.”

The bard couldn’t help but smile as he left. Geralt having a sense of humour at all, let alone making jokes with no prompting, was a completely new development. Perhaps he was more addled than they had realized. Although, Jaskier couldn’t deny that he found the curve of the Witcher’s lips when he smiled, the way he bit his lip when he was trying not to laugh, incredibly attractive. Even ill and white as porcelain, the man somehow managed to make himself simultaneously endearing and terrifying. It made Jaskier’s chest feel as though it had left its contents somewhere high up in the clouds, and he didn’t entirely object to it.

As it turned out, one of the servants must have anticipated their need for more firewood, because there was a bundle of it wrapped in parchment lying on the rich red carpet outside their door. Jaskier ran his fingers over the parchment, marvelling at the sheer display of wealth. Paper was expensive, and the fact that Eist was rich enough to use it as a fire starter was enough to make the bard’s head spin. He frequently found himself in significant debt after buying a new notebook.

“Good news,” he smiled, “Someone must have just been unwilling to disturb our rest.”

Geralt looked up and his face relaxed a little.

“Move over, bard. I’ll light it.”

Jaskier recognized the way he curled his fingers in, ready to make one of those mysterious signs that the bard had yet to ask him about. He did know, however, from watching the Witcher fight that they were a significant drain on his energy.

“Oh, no you don’t. I’ve seen you waver and almost fall after using those in battle. Let me light it.”

Geralt managed to cover his derisive snort as a cough, but it was poorly concealed and Jaskier saw right through him.

“You’re lucky you’re hurt right now. You do realize I survived for _years_ on the road before we met, and in that time, I did manage to build my fair share of fires.”

Geralt raised a dark brown at the shaky square of kindling Jaskier was building up, but said no more on the matter, leaning back into the cushions instead. His face was still far too grey for the bard to stop feeling a pang of worry every time he looked up.

After about ten minutes and a good deal of cursing, there was a small, smoky blaze in the massive hearth. By this point, Geralt’s lips were twitching with amusement, one eye cracked open as he watched the bard’s progress.

“A good deal of fires, hmm?” He finally asked when Jaskier sat back on his heels, hands blackened with soot and ash and very red in the face.

“Oh, hush, you. I’m not sure when you suddenly developed a sense of humour but I’m not entirely sure I like it.”

“Mm. Always had it. Just didn’t want to encourage you.”

“Now it doesn’t matter, though, seeing as you seem to have found yourself stuck with me for the foreseeable future?”

“Mhmm.”

Jaskier wiped the soot off his face, wincing at the destruction of yet another shirt. He seemed to go through them in droves these days, what with the monster guts and mud and rain. Perhaps he would need to start upping the rates he charged to finance his monthly wardrobe needs. Rinsing his hands in the bowl of water near to the bed, he slumped tiredly on the couch next to Geralt, who looked like he was dozing. The Witcher immediately cracked an eye though, and Jaskier sighed at his constant vigilance, even when he was perfectly safe.

“Now that it’s warmer, tell me how you’re feeling. And please be honest. I can’t do anything to help you if you say you’re fine, and I know you’re not, despite how hard you’ve been trying to convince me all morning.”

Perhaps it was just that Geralt was too tired to argue, but there wasn’t even the hint of irritation that normally would have accompanied such a question. He merely sighed tiredly, pressing the heel of his hand into his forehead again and shutting his eyes.

“Headache. And I’m still…off balance.”

“How bad is the headache? As in, do you feel as though someone’s trying to split your head with a hammer, or like there’s an icepick being driven into your skull?”

“The second one.”

Having been on the receiving end of several concussions himself (and always having enjoyed people fussing over him in the aftermath), Jaskier quickly got down to business wetting a cloth from the basin and wiping it gently over Geralt’s forehead. It had been hailing earlier, and the bard had collected some of the ice from their windowsill, knowing it was unlikely that Eist had an ice cellar built up so early into the fall. The hail had been small, but it had cooled down the water enough that Jaskier knew it would help dull the pain a bit. And Geralt’s relieved sigh told him everything else he needed to know in that regard.

“Better?”

“Hmm.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

“We…we should discuss when we’re planning on going,” Geralt peeled his eyes open, and they looked a bit less hazy now, “We can’t stay here forever. Eist’s hospitality will run out eventually, and I need to get back on the path. I’ve been cooped up here long enough, and now that Corvin’s dead, there’s no reason to go back to Errowhal.”

Jaskier gaped at him for a moment, looking pale and sick with little drops of icy water sprinkled like dew across his forehead. As if the bandages wound through his silver hair didn’t show that he was unwell enough.

“You can’t be serious. Look at you. I doubt you could stay astride Roach right now without tipping off into the ditch.”

Geralt seemed to consider this for a moment, taking stock of his body and his various aches and pains. He ran a hand experimentally down his bad leg, and winced a little.

“I’ll be fine. Leg’s mostly healed, and if you sit behind me on Roach I won’t fall off. We’ll take it slow at first, but I would like to be back on the road. Sitting around in grand manors doesn’t agree with me. I feel like…a dog, that was let in out of pity during a storm.”

“That’s no reason to turn yourself out before you’re well enough to leave. Eist’s been more than willing to accommodate us. And you’re not well. Unless it was just my eyes deceiving me when you were puking up your guts a few moments ago.”

Having the grace to look appropriately sheepish, Geralt reached up and adjusted the cloth on his forehead, fingers grazing briefly against the bandages wound about his brow. There was a small red stain soaking through the back of them, and the bard filed away that he would probably have to coax Geralt into letting him change them later on today.

“I want to leave, Jaskier. I’m tired of being here, and I think it would be better if we moved on. I wouldn’t suggest it if I wasn’t sure I could handle it. Despite what you seem to think, I do have some self-preservation instincts.”

The bard snorted and stroked Geralt’s scalp softly, rubbing the pads of his fingers over the other man’s pale temples.

“It’s just…you don’t look ready to up and leave, is all. Perhaps a few days ago, before Corvin attacked us, I might have been tempted to believe you. But now you’ve gone and gotten hurt again, and you can barely walk without my help. I…I don’t want to see you get yourself killed. It feels like you’ve come too close already.”

Geralt blinked, seeming surprised. Jaskier knew he was still processing the idea that someone would care if he was gone, and it saddened the bard greatly. He knew all too well what it was like to wander the Continent and know that there was no one expecting you home, no one who would miss you if you didn’t make it home before the first frost. It was a bleak and dreary existence, and not one that Geralt, who always sought to take away the fear and pain of others, deserved. He squeezed the Witcher’s shoulder gently.

“I won’t fight with you if you truly believe you’re well enough to go. I just worry for you. Like I said before, I don’t want to see you get hurt or killed.”

“Hmm…bit late for that.”

“Well. Any more than I already have.”

Geralt’s lips twitched a little again, and he settled back into the bard’s lap with a contented, drowsy sigh.

“We should go tomorrow. Gives us some time to organize our things and give our thanks to Eist.”

Jaskier looked up at the rain and hail still pounding viciously against the windowpane, rapping at the glass like an unwanted visitor. He shuddered at the thought of leaving in that downpour, especially with all their warm things lost or stolen by Corvin’s men. He craved somewhere warmer, somewhere brighter and refreshing where they could both recover in peace for a while, where Geralt could get back his strength while still feeling like he was fulfilling his role as a protector of the weak and innocent against creatures most foul.

“Very well. But I want to head West, to Skellige. I haven’t been to the Isles since I was a boy, and I loved them so very much, with their sweeping mountains and high valleys. I think it’s about time I went back again. For inspiration, of course.”

“Have you been lacking…inspiration of late?”

“Hah. No, not at all. I just think that perhaps we could both use a change of scenery. And Skellige is beautiful and unique; the perfect place for composing a new ballad and leaving all this unpleasantness behind us.”

“Hmm. Plenty of work in Skellige. And I know some of the Jarls, who would be sure to offer us both decent pay to ply our trades.”

Jaskier decided not to mention that Geralt returning to hunting so soon after so many serious injuries would only end in disaster. The Witcher had a good enough read on his body not to need someone else to explain this to him. Perhaps he was simply engaging in a bit of wishful thinking, his restless mind weeks ahead of his wounded body.

“Very well. But once again, only if you’re sure you’re up to it. If you wake tomorrow and can’t go, no one here will think any less of you. Personally, I’d rather that than have you go tipping off our ship into the sea halfway to Ard Skellig.”

Geralt just sighed and closed his eyes at this, reaching up to rub distractedly at his temples. He looked pale and tired, and Jaskier wished that he was strong enough to simply gather the other man up in his arms and carry him back to the bed. As it stood, he gently shook Geralt’s shoulder, telling him perhaps he should go rest for a while, and the Witcher offered little complaint as Jaskier supported him across the room. His legs were wobbly beneath him, and he kept tilting his head as though he couldn’t quite tell which way was up. It seemed a great relief for him to sink back into bed and close his eyes, and Jaskier tucked a quilt gently about his shoulders, brushed some hair off his brow.

“Perhaps you should take a bath before we go,” he spoke softly, sensing Geralt was more asleep than awake, “You look a right state.”

The Witcher nodded, though Jaskier got the impression that he had absolutely no idea what he had just agreed to, that he was simply going along with everything the bard said because he was too tired to fight it. An enormous amount of trust to place in someone, Jaskier thought. Especially from a man who trusted so little. He allowed himself a small smile at the thought.

“I’m just going to go speak to Eist about what we’ve planned,” he whispered, “You just rest. I’ll be in the study right across the hall if you need anything.”

Jaskier had his own thoughts about why Eist had moved them to a room so close to his own study and quarters. Clearly, the Jarl felt terrible about what had happened to them. He could only imagine entertaining guests in his home to discover that they had been attacked and nearly killed. No wonder Eist wanted to keep a closer eye on them.

He slipped out the door while Geralt was still awake, but he was careful to shut it softly behind him. No use in keeping him from sleep any longer than was necessary, when he so clearly needed it.

Outside, the hall was empty and silent. There were oil lamps hanging from the wall, and a chandelier made from antlers about halfway between the bedroom door and the door to Eist’s study. All the candles and lamps were burning low. It must have been later than Jaskier had thought. There was something peaceful in the carpeted silence of the evening. It reminded him of the peaceful days he had experienced in Lettenhove, when his father was away on business.

He knocked gently at the Jarl’s door, and there was a brief shuffling of papers on the other side before a tired-sounding voice called for him to enter.

“I’m sorry for disturbing you so late,” Jaskier said, slipping around the door and shutting it softly behind him, in the habit of doing so after spending so many months travelling in the company of a man who startled far too easily, “Do you have a moment?”

Eist looked up. He looked absolutely exhausted, rings under his eyes and reddened lines on his cheek where he had been resting it against his hand. He gestured at a chair by the hearth and came around his great mahogany desk to join Jaskier there, staring deep into the shifting, popping coals. The whole room was a mess of papers, maps stuck full of knives and battle figurines, a chaotic planning centre of what appeared to be a great war.

“I’m sorry for my appearance,” Eist said by way of a greeting, “It’s been a long day. I’m afraid I’ll have to return to Cintra soon…there are rumours brewing of hostilities with Nilfgaard. Hostilities that I’m afraid myself and her majesty have left to the wayside for far too long.”

The bard nodded in understanding; though Lettenhove was not along a major trade route, nor was it a particularly large settlement, he knew all too well of the rumblings that Nilfgaard was on the move. The thought of a war was not a pleasant one, and sitting here surrounded by plans and strategies, Jaskier suddenly felt that it was inevitable, and was greatly relieved he had been dismissed from his role as the heir to Lettenhove. He would not have been a good military leader. Especially not against a foe as formidable as Emhyr var Emreis.

“Ah, but where are my manners? You’ve come here to speak with me, and I’ve preoccupied you with the fears and whisperings of a war.”

“It’s nothing, truly. In fact, I think it fits in rather well with your plans, if you intend to return to Cintra. I came simply to thank you for your hospitality, and to let you know that we won’t be intruding in your home for much longer. Geralt is eager to return to the path, and we have plans to travel West to Cintra tomorrow, after we’ve had some rest.”

This seemed to get Eist’s attention. He looked up, shocked, gaze no longer directed distractedly into the dying fire.

“Fuck. You can’t be serious,” his tone took on a much more casual role now, and Jaskier found it interesting how easily he switched from courtly manners to a far more familiar manner, “He’s barely recovered.”

“I believe I said something similar.”

“I won’t turn the two of you out, not before he’s healed,” Eist leaned forward to rest his head in his large palm, “It would be nothing short of cruel to have you leave now, regardless of how eager he is. I’m willing to bet he can’t even stand on his own, let alone ride a blasted horse.”

Jaskier bit his lip and sighed. Eist and Geralt were far too alike, and he found himself feeling as though he were being torn in half, split between two men who were both far too stubborn for their own good. He was about to open his mouth to answer, to try to remain impartial, when someone behind him stole the words from his mouth.

“No need to make plans without me present.” It was a low drawl, though it sounded a bit scratchy, as though the person was trying to hide a sore throat or the gruffness of exhaustion. Jaskier turned around, unsure whether to be infuriated or worried.

“Geralt! What in Melitele’s name are you doing here? I left you to _rest_ , not go traipsing about the place as though you hadn’t a care in the world.”

Though Jaskier couldn’t be sure, he thought he heard Eist disguise a snort as a cough. It was poorly executed, and the bard, master of all forms of deception, saw right through him. However, he was too focused on the Witcher to care about what the implications of the Jarl’s amusement might be.

Geralt looked awful. He was as white as a sheet, leaning casually against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest and his feet crossed at the ankles. His slumped posture betrayed him, though; his head was leaned back against the wall and he looked like a stiff wind might knock him over. His hair was curlier than usual, unkempt from several days spent in bed, and along with the dark circles pressed into his pale skin and the slight exhausted tremor that shook his frame, he looked a sight. Jaskier stood and hurried over, taking his arm.

“For fuck’s sake, come sit before you fall over. You look a right state. What are you doing here? How did you even manage to walk here?”

Geralt gave him a look, as though he was being absolutely ridiculous, and tried to brush him off. However, as soon as he abandoned his too-casual position against the wall, he lurched forwards and narrowly avoided falling flat on his face. Looking dizzy, the Witcher placed a shaky hand on Jaskier’s shoulder and allowed himself to be led over to the fire and lowered carefully into the armchair previously occupied by the bard.

“You must have something to say, if you dragged yourself down the hall in this state.” Jaskier couldn’t help but check to make sure Geralt’s forehead wasn’t warm; stranger things had happened, and he though the Witcher knew his limitations better than this.

“Hmm. Heard about rumblings of war with Nilfgaard. Suppose you could say I was curious.”

“You got up and came here in your condition because you were _curious_?”

“I’m not as weak as you think, bard,” Geralt looked up, eyes still a bit hazy, “Mostly just dizzy and off balance. My knee’s mostly healed. And I don’t want Eist to get the impression I’m worse off than I am, especially if he has better places he needs to be.”

Here Geralt turned pointedly to the Jarl, who was looking on at the whole interaction with a vaguely amused look on his face. He leaned back, twiddled a bit with the edge of his beard. The fire continued to crackle in the hearth, and the rain, slowed to a drizzle, tapped on the grand windows. The gentle noise was incredibly soporific, and suddenly Jaskier wished very much to go back to their room and curl up in bed with Geralt at his side.

“I understand your situation all too well, wolf. I’ve had similar conversations with my wife a time or twenty. And every time I tell her that I don’t have a death wish, that if I needed more time to heal, I would take it. So, if this is what you two have agreed upon, I’ll not stop you. Just remember there is a place here if you should need it, regardless of my being here.”

“You have our thanks,” Jaskier nodded, feeling rather overwhelmed at the whole thing; to be invited to stay in a king’s hunting lodge was no small thing, “We should get back. It’s late, and we’ll have preparations to make in the morning.”

“Indeed. I should be retiring as well. Nilfgaard won’t invade our borders overnight, at least.”

Eist held the door for them, and Geralt begrudgingly took Jaskier up on his offer of support, one arm slung over the bard’s shoulders. However, as they made their way slowly back down the hall, the bard noticed that Geralt was taking more of his own weight, and limping far less. He looked absolutely wrecked with the effort of it, but it was a step in the right direction.

“Now that you’ve determined no decisions were being made in your absence, perhaps you can get some rest?” Jaskier asked with a wry twist in his lips as he helped Geralt back into bed. The Witcher sighed and nodded.

“I’m…sorry if I surprised you. I don’t appreciate not having a say in what happens to me. It has nothing to do with you, or anything you did wrong. Just…leftovers from my youth.”

After ensuring the fire would die down well and blowing out the few candle lanterns in the room, Jaskier snuggled up under the blankets, leaning his head on Geralt’s chest and closing his eyes to the too-slow beats of the Witcher’s heart and the gentle pattering of the rain outside.

“Will you tell me sometime? About your youth?”

“Hmm. Not a happy tale, I’m afraid. Not one that will help you…improve my image.”

“I don’t want it for a ballad. I just…want to know you. Know what makes you the way you are, why you do things the way you do, what bothers you and why. It matters to me, that I do right by you.”

The silence after that statement stretched on for so long that Jaskier was sure Geralt had fallen asleep. He was nearly asleep himself, enjoying the gentle susurrations of the wind and rain outside, when Geralt shifted a bit.

“Very well. Perhaps some time.”

He sounded very sleepy now, words slurred together and full of the warmth of a comfortable bed in a safe house. Jaskier curled up tighter around him, and smiled when Geralt wrapped his arm around his back, drawing him close.

“Night, Geralt. Sleep well.”

“Hmm. You too.”

Jaskier was awake long after Geralt’s breaths had evened out into a restful sleep, listening to the quiet thumping of his heart, and the gentle noises of the world outside.


	13. Into The Deep and Brilliant Sea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt and Jaskier finally get their trip to Skellige. Trauma is worked through, and in the end everyone gets what they very much wanted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Some smut in the last paragraph. It was my first time trying my hand at writing smut, so let me know if I did okay!
> 
> Sorry this is a day late! We're in the midst of a polar vortex here in Reykjavik, down to minus sixty celsius the past few days, and the insulation on my windows is awful. All this led to fingers that were too bundled up and cold to write. Yikes. Ah well. The final chapter is always such a bittersweet moment for me. That being said, I really like how this one turned out, even though it is a bit shorter than the other ones. 
> 
> Not sure where writing will take me next. We shall have to wait and see for the muses to strike!! Perhaps febuwhump is calling my name, or a sequel, either to this or Lilacs. For those of you who've read both, which would you rather I wrote a sequel to?

The sun set so differently on the water than it did on land. A path, leading straight from their ship, dipping and curving with the waves, pointing straight to the horizon. It was a path of light, of warmth and gentleness that reminded Jaskier of going to the coast with his sisters as a child. If he listened carefully, he could still hear the way the fishermen would always blow a conch horn as the sun finally took its final bow, slipping gracefully below the edge of the world. It was a warm, soft glimmer, the water nearly dark around those final rays of light. So different than the inky blackness that had surrounded the moonlit streak of lake on their midnight ride weeks ago. Weeks, but it felt like years. Jaskier took in a deep, heaving breath, letting the salty air coat his tongue and reinvigorate him somewhat. It was late, and he was tired. Days of continuous travel to the coast, finding funds to pay their passage across to Ard Skellig; an exhausting time indeed. He should probably go below and rest. But somehow, the sun’s final rays held sway, contrasting so neatly with the painful memories he still held of their moonlit gallop. It was therapeutic, and he didn’t want to leave it quite yet. It helped him forget the feeling he had, that he was constantly in danger, constantly being watched. Every time he let his mind drift, it drifted right back to Corvin’s cold, dead eyes, his skeletal hands reaching out to snatch away everything Jaskier held dear.

It was when the final rays of sunlight were shivering across the ocean, lighting up the sky a brilliant orange, that Jaskier felt a hand fall on his shoulder. He jumped, frightened and surprised. He had not been expecting company.

“Geralt! Should you really be up? I left you below to rest, you know.”

The witcher looked pale and gaunt, dark hollows carved out underneath his eyes only serving to emphasize the whole image. If the past few days had been tiring for Jaskier, they had been torturous on Geralt. The bard was surprised he was standing, let alone that he had somehow made it up onto the deck without assistance.

“Hmm. Wanted to see where you were. Thought you would have come to bed by now, what with all the groaning about how tired you were on the road.”

Jaskier bristled until he saw the faint lines of amusement that seemed to characterize Geralt’s countenance more and more these days. Nudging him gently in the ribs, he turned back to the horizon.

“It’s captured my imagination, all this. I haven’t been sailing since I was an adult, and I suppose I forgot how beautiful it was. I could stay here for days. Watching, describing, composing. It’s lovely.”

“The sunsets from Skellige are even more colourful. If my memory serves me correctly.”

Geralt had moved in behind Jaskier, and had placed both his arms on the gunwales of the boat, trapping the bard beneath the gunwales and his body. It was warm and peaceful, and Jaskier was tempted to lean his head back to rest on the witcher’s chest, before realizing that his stance was probably more to offer himself support than because of any yearning for physical contact. His hands were white-knuckled, and Jaskier could feel his chest muscles quivering spastically.

“Come on, you. Let’s go lie down. The sun’s set now anyways, and I think we’re getting in the crew’s way.”

Truth be told, the captain was an old friend of Geralt’s, who had apparently worked as a bodyguard aboard his ship for nigh on six months, protecting it from sirens and pirates and all sorts of unpleasantness. The crew was all overly kind to them, and the bard doubted they would have said anything if they had been getting in the way. But, being on a floating tub in the middle of the sea with a bunch of well-endowed men was not the best scenario in which to take risks. And the wind was turning; it promised to be a tumultuous night.

As soon as Jaskier turned, he winced at the look on Geralt’s face. His eyebrows were pursed, hands still braced forcefully against the gunwales. He looked utterly helpless.

“Why in the name of Melitele’s lovely tits did you come up here if you couldn’t manage to get yourself back down again? Geralt, we left early, and I’ve regretted it every day since. You’re still recovering, and I wish you didn’t have to do it while we were tossing and turning in the middle of the ocean.”

Geralt’s eyes stayed downcast, and Jaskier let himself indulge in a luxurious little shiver at the way his long lashes stood out so prominently against his pale skin. Even looking pale and sick and far too unwell to be wandering about on deck, the man was sinfully attractive. If he weren’t so obviously unwell, Jaskier would have slammed him up against the gunwale right then and there, sailors be damned.

“Well, unless you’re planning on sleeping under the stars, which is _not_ an option, you’d best lean on me before you fall on your face, hmm?”

Geralt leaned his shifting weight against Jaskier’s shoulder, and together they limped across the swaying deck and back to their cabin, a small room that tilted and turned with the rocking of the sea, sending everything that wasn’t tied down sliding from side to side like flotsam from a shipwreck. The bard shuddered to rid himself of the thought. The idea of a death in the endless deep was not a pleasant one, and the thought had been haunting him ever since they had set out to sea. The constant sliding about caused them to have a few near misses with the narrow cabin walls before Jaskier finally pressed Geralt back against the bed.

“Tell me what’s bothering you? And be honest, you’ve been telling me you’re fine for days and I’m having more and more trouble believing you. You seemed alright on land, but now we’re at sea your balance is all off again.”

“It’s the swaying. I’ll get used to it in a few days. It always takes me some time to find my legs at sea. Witchers have improved balance, but it makes it harder for us to adapt to new surroundings. My ears feel off while I’m adjusting as well.”

Geralt tapped at the side of his head, cocking it as though he was trying to get something to drain out of his ear. After a moment, he shook his head and righted himself again.

“So it’s nothing to do with the concussion? You keep telling me it’s healed, and then you go wobbling about as though you’d taken a fresh hit to the head.”

“Nothing to do with that. Just the ship. My knee’s putting off my walking as well.”

“Hmm. Take some of those herbs Eist sent us away with, see if they won’t at least dull the pain a bit. You should be resting it as much as possible, you know. Not traipsing about this bloody boat as though you hadn’t a care in the world.”

“Mm. Good views.”

“Since when do you give a shit about views?”

“I’m multifaceted.”

Jaskier allowed himself a brief smile before reaching into Geralt’s pack as it went sliding by, snatching the cured leather packet of herbs out of the top and passing them to the witcher.

“Take them. It can’t hurt.”

“Never said it would.”

Geralt leaned back against the headboard of the bunk and lifted his arms to rest his head against them instead of letting it bounce about against the wooden wall. With one knee raised, and looking much less pale now that he wasn’t trying to constantly adjust his balance on an injured leg to suit the rocking of the ship, he looked almost languorous. Like a hunting cat, relaxed but ready to spring up at a moment’s notice. Even his chewing of the herbs was slow, relaxed, not the way Jaskier normally saw him down potions and medications. In the heat of battle, he possessed a single-minded urgency that he seemed much more relaxed without.

“Better?” Jaskier asked after a moment, coming to lay down next to the witcher when he saw Geralt had shuffled over to make room for him.

“Hmm. A bit. Just need to rest the joint.”

The bard shot him a pointed look, but knew that further pontification about how wandering about the ship wouldn’t help his case. Geralt had been cooped up inside for weeks, and had spent most of their journey to the port dozing on Roach’s back, trying to recover his senses and sleep away the pain in his head and knee. Jaskier had kept him fairly drugged up on the early stages of their journey as well; he had been too tired and in too much pain to resist. As such, this was probably the first signs of fresh air he was fully aware of feeling since their escape from Errowhal. And the bard couldn’t begrudge him that.

“I’m glad you’re feeling better, at least.”

Geralt cocked his head and reached over to nestle his hand in Jaskier’s curls. He had started doing this on the road when they had shared a bedroll for warmth. It had seemed to ground him, and the bard had finally caved and told him how much he liked the contact. Geralt did it more frequently now, sometimes even scratching at Jaskier’s scalp if he was sleepy and not entirely in control of himself.

“And you?”

“Me? I’m fine, Geralt. Goddess, Corvin got one punch in, before he proceeded on to nearly killing you. I’m not sure why you’re still so concerned about it.”

For a moment, there was nothing but the creaking of the ship, the crashing of the waves against the hull. A set of booted feet jogged overhead, and a bit of water dripped between the boards of the ceiling. The whole place reeked of seaweed and sand, and a little bit of livestock from where the goats were kept for slaughter below them.

“That’s not what I mean. You aren’t sleeping.”

Jaskier winced. He had been hoping Geralt hadn’t noticed. Though now that he was fully recovered from his concussion, it had only ever been a matter of time.

“Ah…well…”

“You don’t need to explain it. I know.”

The bard looked up, surprised, and caught Geralt’s piercing eyes. He was still reclined, but there was more urgency in his posture now, a tension that hadn’t been there before.

“He’s dead, Jaskier. He won’t hurt you.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” Jaskier bit his lip, suddenly feeling very weak and ashamed, to be breaking like this when nothing had even happened to him, in front of Geralt, who was stoic even when he was broken and bleeding, “He…he’s still there. I feel like I can’t shake him. Like everywhere I go he’s only a breath away from attacking us, from taking you from me again and forcing me to watch as he nearly kills you. And…I can’t do that again.”

A thumb reached over and brushed away one of the bard’s tears, and he felt his face go hot with shame. The surf was truly crashing against the hull now, and the whole ship was tossing like a cork in a shaken bottle of wine.

“I’m…I’m an idiot. You’re the one he tortured, nearly killed, and I’m the one who can’t fucking sleep because every time I close my eyes he’s _right there_ and I just want to be there for you but I feel like I can’t even keep myself safe, let alone protect you and…”

Jaskier felt himself gathered up, knees and back encircled by warm arms and then he was pressed against Geralt’s warm chest, listening to the slow, steady beating of the witcher’s heart. His breath was heaving, shuddering in his chest and he couldn’t seem to get a handle on it. Not even the rhythm of the pounding seas, the men battening down the hatches above, and the slow beat of another living body underneath him could calm his racing mind. It seemed that everywhere around him was flooded with chaos, and not of the magical nature. It seeped into his very soul, poisoning him, keeping him from truly experiencing anything expect fear. For the bard, whose feelings were so raw, always, this was the most frightening part of the whole thing. It was as though someone had wrapped his ability to enjoy beauty and wonder in a thick layer of cotton, and it was now inaccessible to him.

The boat rocked on and on. Perhaps it was the boat. Perhaps it was Geralt, slowly listing back and forth in time with the waves. It could have been both. Jaskier wasn’t able to see past his own heaving breaths for the longest time, only dully aware of the fact that he was moving at all. It wasn’t until the ship jerked particularly violently, making Geralt hiss and tense up as his knee was jostled, that the bard came back to himself a little bit. The lantern was guttering in the wall, but there was no more light seeping in through the portal window in the wall. It had to be the dead of night, and Geralt was still awake, bleary-looking, eyebrows drawn together with what appeared to be concern.

“Ah…” Jaskier breathed out shakily, sounds catching in his throat, “Shit, Geralt. I’m so sorry. I-I’ll go somewhere else. Walk around…on the deck a bit. I just need some fresh air.”

His lips tripped over the words like they were stones catching on his feet. He felt like he was shivering, but the cabin was comfortably warm despite the stormy night. The tremors came from inside of him. And in his damnable weakness, he couldn’t even keep them there. Couldn’t even keep Geralt, so newly recovered from serious illness and injury, safe from his own treacherous mind. He looked away, bit his lip. Placed his hands to push himself off the bunk and go.

“You’re not going,” Geralt said quietly, “You’ll freeze.”

“I’ll be a-alright.” There was that tremor, betraying him again. Jaskier clenched his fists, trying to still himself.

“You…aren’t alright. Even I can see that. Do you think that in all my years of fighting and being persecuted for what I am, in all that time I’ve never experienced fear? That there aren’t nights I don’t do exactly this?”

Jaskier stopped, shocked. His mouth opened up a bit obscenely as he tried to wrap his head around those words. The image of Geralt, stoic and silent to the last, trembling with fear from a threat that came from his mind was ridiculous. Jaskier frowned, pushed the witcher’s hands away.

“Don’t mock me. It’s kind of you, to try to understand, but saying things like that does me more harm than good. I already feel ashamed enough.”

He stood to go, unsure if he felt more hurt or angry. His feet struggled for purchase as the whole ship dipped below another wave, and Geralt reached out and caught his arm roughly, spun him back around so they were facing one another. His eyes were dark, thunderous even. The creases of his brow had never been so pronounced.

“Fuck, Jaskier. I’m not mocking you. I wouldn’t just fucking…say something like that, if it wasn’t true. I’m not imaginative enough to do that to you and you know that. And I wouldn’t want to even if I could. I-I’m trying to help you, for fuck’s sake, so sit down and listen.”

Jaskier thudded back against the bunk audibly, wincing when his head snapped back against the force of a wave and he smacked into the wall. He rubbed at his smarting scalp, not looking up to meet Geralt’s eye. He had no idea what to think of all of this. It made absolutely no sense that Geralt wound understand any of this. Though Jaskier did not doubt that the witcher had experienced horrible things in his long lifetime, the man had never been anything but stoic about it. He never had nightmares, never had trouble sleeping. And while he certainly had a hero complex and was wracked with guilt when he failed to save someone in need, it never led to him turning to a puddling of misery. At least, not during the time the bard had known him. He gulped, face colouring. Perhaps he had spoken too soon.

“You know that witchers go through trials, yes?”

“Of course, Geralt, that’s common knowledge, but what does this have to do with…”

“Just listen. I’m not going to say this more than once.”

Jaskier swallowed the words that were bubbling up at the back of his throat. It seemed to be a nervous reaction, to simply babble and talk until he was all empty of thoughts. He bit his lip self-consciously and focused instead on calming the tremors in his hands.

“Witchers, before our keeps were destroyed, came to their various schools at any age between five and ten. Most of us are child surprises, promised to older witchers by our parents for some

service they were done. I…ah…well, I’m not entirely sure how I came to be promised. Just that I was a child surprise. My mother left me at the road to the keep when I was seven, and Vesemir found me not long after. He must have been waiting for me.”

Geralt paused here, but Jaskier wisely kept his mouth shut. The witcher looked pensive and lost, like he had forgotten that he was speaking at all, let alone that there was someone listening to him. The ship pitched and the waves crashed, but it all seemed a little more far away now. Jaskier leaned back against the wall. Geralt folded his hands behind his head and leaned back against them, staring up at the swaying lantern above the bunk.

“I trained at the keep until I was eighteen, at which point all witchers undergo mutations after they’ve survived the previous trials. Only about half the boys of my age made it that far. After…well, there were far less. You can’t be sedated to undergo mutations, or they don’t take. Most of the mutagens are injected right into your bloodstream, but for some, like our eyes, they cut the top layer away and place the mutagens on the skin itself before stitching the wound shut again. Those who survive are left blinded for weeks, and many succumb to the fever afterwards. Everything is heightened, more painful, when you wake. I passed out about an hour in, and when I woke I couldn’t speak for weeks because I had yelled myself hoarse. I…don’t remember much about that time. Just that at some point it must have been decided that I was making good progress, because they chose to do it all over again.”

Jaskier gaped. He had heard about the horrors of the Trials; about how so few boys had survived even before the witchers lost the ability to complete the mutations. To subject someone to those trials more than once seemed beyond cruel.

“I didn’t expect to survive. When they explained to me what was going to happen, I was too ill from the first round to understand anything other than that no one thought I would live. It was more for experimentation than anything else. Just to see what would happen. But, I woke, a week later, blind and too weak to move, and somehow I suppose I lived. It felt like I had been flayed alive, vivisected like they used to do at Oxenfurt. At first, I couldn’t remember anything that happened to me. But they had never sedated me. And as time went on…well, those memories returned. And they’ve never left me since.”

There was silence then, just for a moment. Then, Geralt took a deep breath.

“I know more about what you’re going through than you might think. And…it will get better. With time, those memories will fade and become less vivid. You’ll make new ones that overlay the old. You’ll move on, and when you remember it won’t be quite as visceral anymore. And until that happens…well, whatever you need to do, I understand.”

There were tears streaming down Jaskier’s face. He felt shaky, but he couldn’t stop the shivering, the strange coldness that sat right below his breastbone. As Geralt had continued on talking, more than Jaskier had ever heard him do at one time, the more the cold horror had

sunk into him. The thought of Geralt suffering so, and then being told that because he had survived, he was to be subjected to the whole thing all over again, made Jaskier’s blood boil. He couldn’t tell if it was from sorrow or rage. Silently, he reached out and took the witcher’s hand. It was very cold, and the bard thought he detected the slightest of tremors shuddering down his thumb. He stroked it softly, a sudden, strange peace coming over him to know he was very much not alone.

They stayed like that for a while longer, Jaskier drifting on the edge of exhaustion after so many nights of sleeping poorly. His head bobbed in time with the waves, hand still clasped in Geralt’s which was shaking a bit. He gave the witcher time, knowing that he barely ever spoke so much, and not wanting to disturb the strange, calm understanding that had just deepened between them. He nearly jumped out of his skin when Geralt opened his mouth and spoke again, very softly. His hair was falling about his face where he was slumped back against the wall, and his eyes glinted underneath that silver curtain in the swinging light of the lantern above.

“Would you like to come here? To sleep, I mean. I’ve noticed you…appreciate being close. When you’re sleeping.”

Jaskier had to let himself smile a little at Geralt’s inherent awkwardness. He had been much freer with his affections when he had been delirious from fever and painkilling drugs. But the effort was there, and that was what counted.

“Only if you want it as well,” the bard winced at how hoarse he sounded, voice grating against the top of his mouth as though he had been chewing on gravel, “I don’t want to intrude, if you need a moment.”

Geralt looked up, brushed his unruly curls out of his face. Since their time at Ard Clannagh, when he had been washing his hair more frequently than the average once a month, it had grown from near straightness to little curls that framed his face nicely. Jaskier liked it. It made the witcher look a bit softer, and yet still hard and noble and respectable. And as much as Geralt cursed when he was trying to tuck it back and wrestle it into a ponytail or half pulled back, he had admitted it was easier to care for when it was separated into curls instead of matted completely straight.

“I don’t mind, bard. And you need sleep.”

“Do you…enjoy it as well?”

Geralt let his lips quirk up a little bit, even though it was a poor imitation of a smile, what with his watery eyes and shaky hands.

“Perhaps a bit. Though I’ll gut you if you sing of it.”

“Ah. You didn’t need to tell me that.”

Jaskier curled down into the bed, and felt Geralt roll over slowly, carefully, and settle behind him. Whatever the witcher said, Jaskier knew his head and knee were still paining him greatly. When he thought no one was looking, he would often slump down and cradle his forehead between his hands. And he was constantly stopping to grip at his leg, rubbing with reckless abandon at the joint, like if he pushed hard enough the pain would be expelled by osmosis.

“I’ll extinguish the lantern.”

“Mhmm,” Geralt murmured drowsily, “G’night.”

Jaskier sat up, and turned to look at the witcher, head pillowed on his arms, eyes fluttering shut. He looked very peaceful, though completely exhausted.

“Geralt? Thank you. For telling me what you did today. We don’t need to talk about it if you don’t want to…but it helped me, to know you feel that way too, even though you’re so much stronger than I am. And I’m so sorry. Hearing what you went through…it breaks my heart. And that’s not just my flowery words. Truly. You can tell me…if it’s ever on your mind, or bothering you.”

Geralt gave a shuddering stretch, like a cat.

“’M’not.”

“What?”

“Any stronger than you. Just…different.”

The bard bit his lip then, unsure of what to say. He could hear his father’s voice in his head, telling him he was a weakling. And he could also remember, back at Ard Clannagh, when that voice had been superseded by Geralt’s in his head, a calm voice of reason. Now, here he was, really, being that same voice. A warmth filled Jaskier’s chest, superseding the chill of thinking of what Geralt had endured in his youth.

“Perhaps,” he murmured, shuttering the lantern, “Now sleep. We’ll be arriving tomorrow, and I know you’re exhausted.”

By the time Jaskier had settled back down at Geralt’s side, the witcher’s breath had already evened out into a deep rest.

* * *

The rest of their journey passed with little incident. Jaskier slept far better, and when he awoke panting and gasping, Corvin’s dead face still flashing before his eyes, Geralt was there, awake,

rubbing his back or reciting off lists of monsters he had fought in a low voice until the bard fell back asleep. It was odd how comforting they both seemed to find it, Geralt regaining his strength much faster even though he was awake very often in the middle of the night. As though offering Jaskier some comfort gave him some as well.

When they finally docked in Kaer Trolde, Geralt had found his balance again, even though he was still limping a bit. He stumbled a bit when they first found their way onto dry land, but Jaskier did too, and neither of them thought much of it. In fact, the bard gave a little laugh and caught Geralt’s shoulder, and they leaned against one another, amused, waiting for the ground to begin heaving beneath their feet again. The witcher even gave a little snort before limping off on his own, unsteady, nearly tripping over his own feet. Jaskier thought the whole thing was unbearably funny, as did the sailors, who walked with a strange, swaying gait on land, and laughed at the two of them until they found their feet.

Once they were accustomed to the land, Geralt led them immediately through the lower houses of Kaer Trolde, up a small rise, to a little cabin with an artistically carved set of intertwined horses above the door.

“A gift from one of the Jarls,” he said simply, opening the door, “I exterminated some sirens for him several years ago. This is the first time I’ve been back; I’m sorry if it’s dusty.”

Jaskier laughed.

“You think I mind a little bit of dust after following you down Melitele knows how many dirt roads and through several stinking marshes? Goddess, Geralt, the location is beautiful. I’ll enjoy sitting out here so much, looking down over the cliffs out over the sea, with the wildflowers and the grass swaying in the breeze and the mountains off in the distance. If I were you, I would never have left this place.”

“Hmm. Always the poet.”

Geralt followed him inside, lit a small fire in the hearth with a burst of Igni. His ability to use his signs had returned, but he swayed with the effort after, and Jaskier caught his elbow for a moment, making sure he was steady before he turned away and began unpacking.

“Sit and rest for a moment. You’re still not back to your full strength, and I’m more than capable of dealing with the unpacking.”

It was with very little protest that Geralt allowed himself to be led to a slightly dusty sofa, where he stretched out with a poorly concealed groan as his knee cracked a bit. Jaskier winced at the sound, even though Geralt had confirmed it was just the ligaments popping about as they began to knit back together and heal.

“Tired?”

“Hmm. Thinking about contracts. I don’t want to travel too far afield at first. Perhaps there’s a notice posted down by the harbour.”

Jaskier slammed down a pot rather harder than he had intended.

“We’ve come here to _rest_ , not go about hunting sirens and ghouls and what have you. You’re still limping, anything that you went to hunt right now would see you as nothing more than an easy snack. Just stay, for a week at least. Stay and rest and let yourself enjoy the water and the wind and the smell of the sea.”

Geralt cracked an eye, stretching his arms across the back of the sofa. His wrists were still textured and strange looking from the burns, but they no longer seemed to bother him. That was a relief, at least.

“Come, I’ll clean up a bit more here and then we’ll walk down to the sea. I fancy a swim.”

“There’s a path that goes down the cliff. Nice beach at the bottom, too.” Geralt looked reluctant as he said it, as though he knew exactly where this was going.

“Ah! Now you have no choice but to accompany me. Come, Geralt, you’re a fantastic swimmer, I’ve seen you. I daresay you even enjoy it. Perhaps you can catch us some fish for our dinner?”

With an ever-suffering sigh, Geralt pulled himself back to standing, rubbed at his knee, and pulled his boots back on.

“There are good fish near here. Not many drowners polluting the water.”

“Ah. Very comforting. Shall we?”

Leaving their things mostly unpacked, they made their way slowly down the cliff path. It was steep and full of switchbacks, and eventually Geralt yanked a wayward root out of the sandy soil to use as a walking stick. They made much better progress after that, and soon the crashing waves were at their feet. Jaskier yanked off his boot with a feeling of unbridled joy. For the first time since Corvin, he felt really, truly, wildly happy. He wanted to gather Geralt in his arms and kiss him, but was unsure of how such a gesture would be received. The only kisses they had shared were when Geralt had been too ill to remember it. As it was, he settled for stripping off the rest of his clothes and diving into the brilliant blue water that was lapping gently against the shore.

“Watch the bloodmoss,” Geralt called after him, still struggling with his boots on the shore, “Don’t slip. I don’t want to spend my afternoon packing your head full of gauze.”

Jaskier just laughed and flipped onto his back, letting the waves ebb and flow about him, staring at the bright sky over head. The water was cold, but not miserably so, not while it was still fall. And it was so beautifully clear, the bard could make out the trembling shapes of rocks and fish beneath him, flitting to and fro like spectres below the water.

Geralt approached him so silently that he didn’t notice until the ripples nearly knocked him over in the water. Splashing upright, panting a little, he gave the witcher a mild look of consternation.

“You could’ve drowned me, sneaking about like that.”

“Not everyone swims like a drowning bird.”

The bard flicked a little water at him then, trying not to fixate on the still-prominent burn scars about his neck. His hair was damp and curling again, looking more dark that pure silver as the sun began to set. The whole thing was horribly romantic.

“Come one, I was promised supper.”

With a smirk, Geralt flipped and dove beneath the waves. Jaskier watched him from above, pale shape cutting lithely through the water and occasionally reaching out to snatch at a fish. He was below the surface for nigh on five minutes before he turned back up, one hand holding several fish by the gills. He took a great gulp of air when he returned to the surface, cleared his nose, and blinked as though clearing his vision as well. A small film, like a second eyelid, flicked away from his eyes, and he immediately looked like he could see better. Jaskier winced, a little put off, though he never would have said anything. There was still so much about the witcher that he didn’t know or understand.

“My lungs are weak,” he gasped frustratedly when the ability to speak had returned to him, “Spent too long lying about.”

“It’ll come,” Jaskier said gently, wresting the silver fish from his hand, “Just give it time. We should come down here more often. I’ve heard water is good for healing broken bones. Puts less pressure on the wound, makes moving less painful.”

“Hmm.”

They spent a bit longer out in the water, Jaskier keeping guard of the fish while Geralt swam a few laps of the bay. He surfaced after about twenty minutes, looking dishevelled and tired, and took a few more strokes to get himself to the shoreline.

“Come, bard. I’ll cook the fish.”

So they rested on the beach, a small fire crackling between them, lit by another small burst of Igni. The fish were roasting on a spit overtop of the flames, and Geralt reached over lazily every once in a while to turn them. The whole inlet smelled of fish and salt water and the sweet afterburn of drying hair. Geralt had one knee cocked up, apparently completely unconcerned with the fact that he hadn’t bothered to put his clothes back on. Jaskier hadn’t either, taking the witcher’s lead, but after a while he grew cold and wrapped himself in a blanket, tossing one to Geralt as well.

“Warm enough?”

“Indeed.”

Jaskier smiled. A few short months ago, he would have been lucky to get a grunt in response to his question. Things had changed, it seemed.

“Jaskier?”

“Yes?”

There was a brief moment of silence, during which Geralt’s breath seemed to heave a bit faster in his chest than usual. His hand fiddled on the spit.

“Thank you.”

It was quite silent, the merest whisper over the gentle whooshing of the waves and the rustle of nighttime sounds. But Geralt was looking right at him now, chest and face illuminated from below by the glow of the fire. His eyes seemed alight with something. Jaskier took it as his que.

“Come here.”

Geralt did, moving lithely over to slide himself between the bard’s legs, head resting on Jaskier’s chest. Slowly, carefully, the bard planted a kiss on his lips. The fire continued to crackle, releasing a plume of smoke and sparks high into the night sky. The wind rippled through the little inlet. But there was no cold that Jaskier could feel. Only the sweet caress of the waves, and a sweet kiss of something more. Geralt pushed himself up against the bard, warm and taut and pressed against him, returning the kiss with a happy sigh. He nipped softly at Jaskier’s lower lip, let the bard flip him onto his back, protected by the blanket and a healthy amount of soft sand that was warm from where Jaskier had been sitting on it. They held one another like that for a while, murmuring, Jaskier asking questions he had never thought he would be able to ask. Eventually, the bard found himself with his cock resting inside Geralt, slowly moving to the pulse of the waves and the echoes on the stone. It was soft, far softer than Jaskier had ever imagined doing such a thing with Geralt might be. The witcher was soft and supple in his grip, loose and faraway, a hazy look in his eyes. They held each other long after there was a need to, long after they had both climaxed and lay gasping up at the open sky full of brilliant stars.

There was to be no sleep for either of them that night.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Kudos and comments are always so greatly appreciated.


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